2  9  5  B 


* 


THE 

MOTH 

DECIDES 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR: 

THE 
CHARMED   CIRCLE 

A  tale  of  Paris  and  an  American  boy  who 
found  'on  every  hand  romance  hidden  away. 
"As  sunny  as  'Seventeen'  and  as  subtle  as 
'The  Age  of  Innocence.'  There  will  be 
thousands  to  delight  in  it  with  tears  and 
chuckles."  —  Wilson  Follett 

THE  WHITE  KAMI 

The  story  of  a  mysterious  island  in  the 
China  Sea.  "Has  flavor,  charm,  and  quali- 
ties of  unusual  distinction.  We  are  swept  so 
far  from  reality  that  we  close  the  story  with 
genuine  regret."  —  Boston  Evening  Transcript 

NEW  YORK:  ALFRED  •  A  -  KNOPF 


THE  MOTH  DECIDES 

A  NOVEL 
BY 

EDWARD  ALDEN  JEWELL 


NEW  YORK    ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF   MCMXXH 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
EDWARD  ALDEN  JEWELL 

Published,  September,  ma 


Bet  Vf,  electrotype  J,  and  printed  In  the  Vail-BtUou  Co.,  Bingbamton.  X.  7. 

Paper  tupplied  by  W.  F.  Etherinoton  i  Co.,  New  York,  N.  T. 

Bound  bv  the  11.  Wolff  Ettate,  f/tto  York.  N.  Y. 

MANUFACTURED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  or  AMERICA 


TO 
HAROLD  PAGET 


2136506   * 


CONTENTS 


PART  ONE:    THE  ARRIVAL  11 


PART  Two:    THE  Kiss  119 


PART  THREE:    THE  LIGHT  199 


PART  I 
THE  ARRIVAL 


WHEN  Louise  opened  her  eyes  she  stared 
dreamily  up  at  the  slight  abrasion  in  the 
shingle  roof  through  which  morning 
blinked.  There  were  not  many  of  these  informal 
skylights,  for  the  roof  was  not  an  old  one.  But 
there  were  a  few,  as  there  are  likely  to  be  in  most 
summer  cottages.  When  there  was  a  violent  down- 
pour one  had  to  hustle  around  distributing  pans  and 
kettles  to  catch  an  often  ambitious  drip.  But  this 
morning  there  was  no  rain.  Louise's  pretty  face  was 
not  in  danger  of  an  unsolicited  bath.  It  was  a  ra- 
diant summer  dawn. 

For  a  moment  she  wondered  how  she  had  hap- 
pened to  wake  so  early.  The  July  birds  were  all 
chattering  in  the  woods.  But  why  should  she  waken 
out  of,  deep  slumber  unsummoned?  Presently* 
however,  the  reason  for  this  phenomenon  flashed 
vividly.  Downstairs  in  the  cottage  living  room,  on 
the  chimney-piece,  stood  an  old  Dutch  clock.  This 
clock  possessed  a  kind  of  wiry,  indignant  tick,  and 
a  voice,  when  it  was  time  to  speak,  full  of  a  jerky, 
twanging  spite.  Louise  could  hear  the  sharp  ticking. 
Then  there  came  a  little  whirr — like  a  very  wheeze 
of  decrepitude — followed  by  an  angry  striking. 

One,  two,  three,  four.     And  at  the  very  first  stroke 

11 


12  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

she  knew  why  she  was  awake  at  so  almost  grotesque 
an  hour.  The  remembrance  brought  its  half  whim- 
sical shock.  In  an  hour  Leslie  would  be  cranking 
the  engine  of  his  little  launch,  and  they  would  be 
chugging  toward  Beulah. 

However,  even  this  did  not  impel  the  girl  to  spring 
out  of  bed.  Indeed,  she  arose  quite  deliberately 
and  only  after  a  brief  relapse  into  a  dreaminess 
which  was  cousin  to  slumber  itself.  She  allowed  her 
mind  to  explore,  quite  fantastically  and  not  a  little 
extravagantly,  the  probable  courses  of  the  day  just 
springing.  She  knew  beyond  any  question  that  it 
was  to  be  a  day  packed  full  of  importance  for  her. 
Yet  she  proceeded  with  that  air  of  cool  possession 
which  young  persons  often  elect  to  display  when  they 
feel  'that  the  reins  are  snugly  in  their  hands.  As  she 
looked  up  at  the  tiny  point  of  aurora  in  the  roof, 
Louise  smiled.  There  was  almost  no  trace  left 
of  the  old  trouble — that  well  borne  but  sufficiently 
poignant  wound,  which  though  her  own,  had  added 
new  lines  to  the  Rev.  Needham's  already  pictorial 
face.  Richard?  Oh,  Richard  was  almost  forgotten 
at  length.  This  was  as  it  should  be.  Defiantly, 
but  also  a  little  slyly  (because  it  could  hardly  be 
reckoned  a  good  Christian  sentiment),  Louise 
wished  that  Richard  might  somehow  be  here  now  to 
observe  her  triumph;  above  all — for  the  wound  had 
still  a  slight  sting — to  see  how  finely  calm  she  had 
learned  to  be  in  these  matters. 

There  was  a  light  step  outside  on  the  turf  of  the 


THE  ARRIVAL  13 

hillside.  One  unalert  might  not  have  noted  it,  or 
might  not  have  known  it  for  a  human  tread,  where 
there  was  such  a  patter  of  squirrel  and  chipmunk 
scampering.  But  Louise  was  alert.  She  might  be 
calm,  but  she  was  also  alert.  And  she  knew  it  was 
no  squirrel  out  there.  That  was  Leslie.  He  was 
lingering  about  under  her  window,  undecided 
whether  he  ought  to  risk  pebbles  or  a  judicious 
whistle  by  way  of  making  sure  she  was  awake.  At 
the  faint  sound  of  his  foot  she  raised  her  head 
quickly  from  the  pillow. 

"Louise!"  he  whispered. 

You  might  have  thought  it  some  mere  passing 
sibilance  of  wind.  But  you  could  not  be  expected 
to  know  Leslie's  voice  as  she  knew  it. 

The  girl  slipped  softly  out  of  bed.  She  did  not 
want  to  rouse  her  sister.  Hilda  was  sleeping  with 
her.  Hilda  had  given  her  own  room  to  Aunt  Marjie. 

When  Louise  stepped  out  on  to  the  bare  cottage 
floor,  her  feet  encountered  cool  little  hillocks  of 
sand,  the  residue  of  sundry  bed-time  shoe  dumpings. 
One  could  not  live  up  here  beside  Lake  Michigan 
without  coming  to  reckon  sand  as  intimately  and 
legitimately  entering  into  almost  every  phase  of 
existence.  Indeed,  she  trod  on  sand  more  or  less  all 
the  way  across  to  the  single  little  window;  then 
dropped  lightly  on  to  her  knees  before  the  window 
and  peered  down  through  the  screen. 

"Fm  awake,  Leslie,"  she  whispered. 

And  the  lad  who  had  been  eagerly  gazing  at  this 


14  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

very  window,  vacant  till  now,  smiled  faintly,  nodded, 
and  made  motions  signifying  that  he  would  wait  for 
her  in  the  little  rustic  "tea-house."  However,  his 
smile  was  very  brief;  and  his  manner,  as  he  went 
away  toward  the  specified  rendezvous,  was  manifestly 
dejected. 

When  Louise  turned  back  from  the  window,  Hilda 
was  stirring.  Hilda  lifted  herself  up  on  to  an  elbow 
and  welcomed  her  sister  with  bright  eyes. 

"Who's  out  there?"  she  asked. 

"Sh-h-h!     It's  Les.     Go  back  to  sleep,  Hilda." 

"Is  he  going  with  you?"  the  younger  girl  persisted. 

"Only  part  of  the  way." 

"As  far  as  Beulah?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  doesn't  he  go  all  the  way?" 

"Because  I  would  rather  go  alone,"  replied  the 
older  girl  with  a  quite  fascinating  fusion  of  firmness 
and  mystery. 

But  the  manifest  dignity  of  this  response  was 
slighted  by  Hilda,  who  merely  remarked,  in  an 
unemotional  yet  still  significant  tone:  "Oh,  I  see." 

"Well,  isn't  it  natural?" 

"Isn't  what  natural,  Lou?" 

"Isn't  it  natural  I  should  want  to  be  alone  when 
I  meet  Lynndal?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  didn't  just  stop  to  think  how  it  would 
be." 

"Not  that  it  would  really  matter  about  Les,"  the 


THE  ARRIVAL  15 

other  continued,  slipping  quickly  intoi  her  clothes. 
"Les  is  only  a  boy,  after  all." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so,  Lou?" 

"Why,  of  course.  Leslie  isn't  more  than  twenty, 
if  he's  that"  she  concluded  rather  doubtfully, 
twisting  up  her  dark  hair  and  fixing  it  loosely  in 
place. 

"Oh,  he  is!"  protested  Hilda  as  vigorously  as 
whisper-talk  would  allow. 

"Is  what?" 

"Les  is  twenty." 

Louise  had  turned  away  from  the  larger  mirror  in 
the  dresser  and  was  trying  to  focus  the  back  of  her 
head  with  the  aid  of  a  small  hand  mirror,  as  women 
do  who  are  particularly  concerned  about  appearing 
at  their  best.  She  looked  across  oddly  at  her  sister, 
who  in  turn  blushed,  lowering  her  eyes. 

"Well,  then,  as  you  say.  You  seem  to  be  pretty 
sure." 

"Les  told  me  he  was,"  cried  Hilda,  as  though 
vaguely  to  shift  some  sort  of  responsibility. 

Louise  relinquished  the  mirrors  and  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  for  the  purpose  of  tying  her 
shoes.  "Listen,  Hilda,"  she  said;  "you  ought  to  go 
straight  back  to  sleep.  It's  only  four  o'clock.  Papa 
would  be  mad  if  he  heard  us." 

"Oh,  but  he  can't,"  replied  Hilda,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  knows  very  accurately  the  acoustic  proper- 
ties of  the  house  in  which  she  dwells. 


16  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"But  Aunt  Marjie  might,"  the  other  suggested. 

"Oh,  she  wouldn't  tell.  Aunt  Marjie' s  a  sport! 
Besides,"  she  added,  as  though  to  place  the  matter 
altogether  beyond  dispute,  "listen!" 

Both  girls  did.  They  gazed  in  silence  toward  the 
three-quarters  partition  beyond  which  Aunt  Marjie 
was  established.  It  was  quite  true.  There  were  un- 
mistakable dulcet  sounds  from  that  direction.  Aunt 
Marjie  had  warned  them  she  was  a  heavy  sleeper. 
She  had  not  deemed  it  urgent  to  be  more  specific. 

"Safe!"  admitted  Louise,  with  a  sigh  of  mock- 
relief,  adding,  however:  "Even  so,  you  ought  to  go 
back  to  sleep." 

Hilda  dropped  on  to  her  pillow,  seeming  without 
comment  about  to  comply.  But  she  was  right  up 
again  with  an  earnest  question:  "Where's  he  now?" 

"Who?" 

"Les." 

*'Sh-h-h!  He's  waiting  for  me  outside." 

"Oh,  Louise — I  wish  you'd  let  me  go  with  you!" 
The  emphasis  implied  that  the  petition  had  been  put 
hitherto — perhaps  persistently.  "Please  do  let  me  go 
along — only  as  far  as  Beulah!" 

The  person  so  earnestly  addresssed  was  dusting  her 
face  and  neck  with  powder,  which  signified  that  she 
was  about  ready  to  depart.  She  flipped  open  her 
handkerchief  box  with  a  scene  from  Dresden  on  its 
cover  and  tucked  a  fresh  handkerchief  into  her 
blouse.  "Now  be  good  and  don't  tease,"  she  pleaded 
a  little  petulantly.  Louise  took  a  certain  elder-sis- 


THE   ARRIVAL  17 

terly  attitude  towards  Hilda  which  had  in  it  some- 
thing of  selfish  authority. 

Once  more  Hilda  dropped  obediently  back.  But 
as  she  lay  there,  very  wide  awake  indeed,  she  couldn't 
help  sighing:  "Oh,  how  I  should  love  to  go  to 
Beulah!"  And  there  was  another  sigh  to  set  it 
off. 

Now,  it  might  be  supposed,  from  the  fervour  of  the 
young  girl's  tone,  that  this  Beulah,  of  which  both  had 
repeatedly  spoken,  must  be  a  wonderfully  and  pecul- 
iarly charming  place.  Yes,  it  must  indeed  possess 
rare  attributes  to  make  a  girl  beg  to  be  allowed  to 
abandon  her  nice  snug  nest  at  dawn  for  a  mere  sight 
of  it.  And  yet,  curiously  enough,  Beulah  was  hardly 
dharming  in  any  actual  sense:  just  a  tiny,  poky, 
dull  little  hole  of  a  town,  a  poor  speck  on  a  minor 
railroad.  All  things  considered,  Louise's  advice 
sounded  very  sensible:  "You  know  you're  better  off 
here  on  the  Point." 

However,  Hilda  by  no  means  thought  so,  and  she 
shook  her  head  with  stolid  vehemence. 

"And  I  thought,"  her  sister  continued,  paying  very 
little  attention  to  her  own  words,  "I  thought  there  was 
to  be  a  tennis  match  this  morning." 

"Yes,  there  is,"  admitted  Hilda. 

"Well,  you  know  they  couldn't  possibly  play  with- 
out you." 

She  forgot  her  phrases  as  fast  as  she  uttered  them. 
She  was  ploughing  through  her  jewellery  case  for  a 
certain  brooch.  It  was  one  which  Richard  had  given 


18  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

her,  and  which  had  somehow  been  overlooked  when 
the  other  gifts  had  been  sent  back  to  him  at  the  Rev. 
Needham's  firm  request.  She  meant,  if  she  could 
find  it,  to  wear  the  brooch  this  morning.  It  might  be 
Lynndal  would  show  himself  too  sure  of  her.  She 
might  want  to  impress  upon  him  the  fact  that  her 
life  had  not  been  loveless.  At  length  she  found  the 
ornament  and  put  it  on,  with  a  little  toss  of  coquetry. 
Of  course  Louise  didn't  mean  really  to  hold  off  any 
regarding  their  engagement.  Ah,  no.  That  was  a 
settled  thing,  as  a  glance  at  the  correspondence  must 
amply  prove.  Nevertheless,  she  decided  on  the 
brooch.  Richard,  with  his  faithlessness,  had  hacked 
two  years  right  out  of  her  life.  But  Louise  had  a 
new  lover!  The  earlier  affair  was  remote  enough 
to  stand  a  little  harmless  commercializing  now. 

Hilda  modestly  deprecated  the  enviable  light  in 
which  her  tennis  playing  had  been  put  by  her  sister. 

"You  know  that's  not  true!"  she  said. 

"What  isn't  true?" 

"What  you  said  about  them  not  being  able  to  play 
the  match  without  me.  Besides,"  she  concluded  with 
a  leap  of  thought  which  gave  the  words  themselves  a 
queer  stamp  of  irrelevance,  "he's  going  to  play  in 
it,  too" 

"Who  is?"  asked  Louise  blankly,  brushing  some 
strayed  powder  off  her  skirt. 

"Leslie." 

"Leslie?  Well,  I  don't  get  the  connection." 

Hilda  nodded  quite  violently.     Her  sleep-tossed 


THE  ARRIVAL  19. 

hair  lay  richly  about  her  shoulders.  One  shoulder 
was  bare,  where  the  nightgown  fell  away  from  it. 
She  was  fresh  and  pretty.  Perhaps  not  so  pretty  as 
Louise.  But  Hilda  was  only  fifteen,  just  swinging 
into  the  earliest  bloom  of  her  womanhood. 

"Yes,"  she  explained,  "Les  is  going  to  play  in  the 
match.  He  told  me  he  would  have  to  get  back  in 
time  for  that.  So  you  see,  if  it's  only  the  tennid 
you're  thinking  about,  you  might  just  as  well  let  me 
go  along  as  far  as  Beulah." 

"Oh,  he  did?"  asked  her  sister,  rather  sharply,  it 
must  be  confessed,  for  one  who  had  been  so  ab- 
stracted a  moment  before.  "He  said  he'd  have  to 
get  back?" 

"Yes,  Lou.  Why?  What's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing."  She  thrust  a  pin  into  her  hat. 

Hilda  regarded  her  sister's  back  a  moment  in  si- 
lence— as  though  a  back  might  somehow  reveal,  if 
one  but  looked  hard  enough,  what  new  emotion  was 
passing  through  a  heart.  But  when  she  spoke  it  was 
casually,  and  without  further  adherence  to  the  theme. 

"My,  Lou,"  she  said,  "you  look  grand  this 
morning!" 

"Ha!  My  street  suit!" 

"I  know,  but  all  our  city  clothes  look  grand  up  here 
in  the  woods." 

"Well,  I  guess  Lynndal  wouldn't  recognize  me  in 
a  jumper.  Remember,  he  hasn't  seen  me  since  last 
winter,"  observed  Louise,  with  an  evident  seriousness 
of  tone  which  might  almost  lead  one  to  suspect  she 


20  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

really  meant  it  iva$  necessary  to  dress  up  in  order  to 
be  recognized. 

"Yes,  but  you've  written  every  day,"  Hilda  re- 
minded her,  renouncing  the  subject  of  clothes  and 
skipping  light-heartedly  along  the  way  of  digression 
which  had  thus  been  opened  up. 

"It  isnft  so!"  her  sister  assured  her. 

"Well,  then,  three  times  a  week." 

"That's  a  very  different  matter."  Suddenly  she 
thought  of  Richard,  and  the  fecund  diligence,  on  her 
side  at  least,  of  their  correspondence.  She  scowled. 
And  then  she  went  and  bent  over  the  girl  in  bed. 
"Can  you  see  any  powder  on  my  face?" 

Hilda  said  she  thought  she  could  see  just  a  tiny 
little  bit  of  rouge.  So  Louise  rubbed  her  face  vig- 
orously with  a  towel,  by  way  of  destroying  any  pos- 
sible trace  of  artificiality,  and  bringing  thus  a  height- 
ened natural  bloom. 

There  really  was  very  little  artificiality  about  the 
Needham  girls.  The  Rev.  Needham  was  always  ner- 
vously on  the  lookout  for  that.  His  great  horror  was 
such  episodes  as  are  dear  to  the  hearts  of  novelists: 
episodes  in  which  soul-rending  moral  issues  ap- 
pear. And  he  believed,  and  often  quite  eloquently 
gave  expression  to  the  belief,  that  a  subtle  germ  of 
artificiality  lay  at  the  root  of  all  emotional  excesses. 
Louise's  unhappy  affair  with  Richard,  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham  was  pleased  to  lay  almost  squarely  at  the  door 
of  Eastern  Culture.  To  be  perfectly  candid,  the  Rev. 


THE  ARRIVAL  21 

Needham  did  not  know  a  great  deal  about  this  so- 
called  Eastern  Culture.  But  he  was  persuaded — as 
are  perhaps  many  more  good  souls  in  the  Middle 
West — that  it  was  something  covertly  if  not  patently 
inimical  to  those  standards  of  sane,  quiet  living  to 
which  he  almost  passionately  subscribed.  Why  had 
they  ever  sent  her  East  at  all?  "It  was  that  fashion- 
able school  that  did  all  the  harm,"  he  would  say,  with 
a  sigh  in  which  there  was  more  than  a  hint  of  indig- 
nation. Louise  herself,  whatever  she  might  think  of 
the  Culture,  admitted  that  half  the  girls  in  the  school 
were  deep  in  love  affairs,  most  of  which  bore  every 
promise  of  turning  out  badly.  The  school  was  in 
that  paradise  of  schools,  the  nation's  capital.  It  was 
a  finishing  school,  and  a  judicious  indulgence  in 
social  activities  was  admittedly — even  a  bit  arro- 
gantly— one  of  the  features  of  the  curriculum. 

Ah,  yes.  That  was  just  where  all  the  mischief  be- 
gan. If  she  had  stayed  home  instead  and  received 
young  men  in  her  mother's  own  Middle  Western  par- 
lour, she  might  have  been  spared — they  might  all 
have  been  spared — that  terrible  ordeal  of  the 
heart,  with  its  gloomy  envelope  of  humiliation. 
In  plain  terms,  Richard  had  simply  turned  her 
down.  One  might  argue  about  it,  but  one  could 
not,  in  the  end,  really  deceive  oneself.  He  had 
turned  her  down,  thrown  her  over,  jilted  her,  after 
flirting  desperately  and  wickedly — though  in  a  man- 
ner which  the  Rev.  Needham  strongly  suspected  was 


22  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

looked  upon  as  innocent  and  even  rather  proper  by 
the  decadence  of  that  East  he  was  always  harping 
upon. 

Louise,  artless  and  unworldly,  as  she  had  been 
trained  to  be  from  the  cradle,  found  herself  but 
poorly  equipped  to  combat  such  allurements  as  the 
dreadful  Richard  exhibited.  It  was  an  old  tale,  but 
none  the  less  terrible  for  all  that.  She  believed 
everything  he  said  to  her,  fatally  misconstrued  his 
abundant  enough  ardour,  fell  madly  in  love,  and 
wanted  to  throw  herself  in  the  river  when  she  realized 
at  length  that  her  beautiful  dream  was  shattered. 
Naturally,  the  Rev.  Needham  was  shocked.  He  was 
horrified  when  his  daughter  wrote  of  throwing  her- 
self in  the  river.  He  did  not  definitely  visualize  the 
Potomac,  which  he  had  never  seen;  it  was  the  con- 
vulsing generality  that  gripped  him. 

Mrs.  Needham's  conduct,  at  that  time,  had  proved 
much  more  practical,  if  less  eloquent,  than  her  hus- 
band's. She  went  straight  to  her  daughter,  deter- 
mined to  bring  her  back  home;  and  she  left  a  dis- 
tracted minister  to  make  what  progress  he  could  with 
the  Sunday  sermon — agonized,  as  he  was,  by  fevered 
visions  of  his  child's  body,  gowned  in  an  indefinite 
but  poetically  clinging  garment,  her  hair  tangled  pic- 
turesquely with  seaweed,  floating  upon  the  surface  of 
a  composite  stream  in  the  moonlight.  Necessarily  in 
the  moonlight.  The  effect  was  more  ghastly  that 
way.  And  certain  immortal  lines  of  verse  would 
ripple  meaningly  through  his  thoughts: 


THE  ARRIVAL  23 

"The  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls, 
The  twilight  deepens,  the  curfew  calls; 

Darkness  settles  on  roofs  and  walls, 

But  the  sea  in  the  darkness  calls  and  calls.  .  .  ." 

The  Rev.  Needham  was  not  himself  a  poet,  but  there 
was  poetry  in  the  family.  A  brother  had  written 
poetry  and  gone  to  the  devil.  The  Rev.  Needham 
didn't  even  read  poetry  very  often  any  more  (for  of 
course  he  never  though  of  looking  upon  King  James's 
Version  as  a  poem).  In  fact,  the  Rev.  Needham  had 
almost  a  kind  of  sentiment  against  poetry,  since  bro- 
ther Will  had  disgraced  them  all.  But  it  was  cur- 
ious to  observe  that  at  times  of  intense  inner  tumult, 
appropriate  metrical  interlinings  had  a  way  of  insin- 
uating themselves  out  of  the  vast  anthology  of  his 
youth.  Thus,  while  Mrs.  Needham  was  away  look- 
ing after  their  broken-hearted  daughter,  the  clergy- 
man, struggling  to  evolve  his  sermon,  had  to  combat 
such  tragic  dirges  as: 

"One  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death!" 

And  by  the  time  the  poor  man  got  to  those  inhumanly 
personal  stanzas: 

"Who  was  her  father? 
Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister  .      .  ?" 


24  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

he  would  be  pacing  the  floor  and  not  getting  on  one 
bit  with  his  sermon.  Mrs.  Needham  had  the  good 
sense  to  wire  back  that  Louise  was  all  right,  and  that 
she  was  bringing  her  home.  The  sermon  was  some- 
how completed.  But  its  text  was  "Vanity,  vanity!" 
and  there  were  allusions  in  it  to  Culture  which  his 
congregation  never  truly  grasped. 

"Good-bye!"  whispered  Louise.  She  gave  one 
last  flying  peep  into  the  mirror. 

"  'Bye,  Lou,"  her  sister  returned,  presenting  her 
lips  for  a  kiss.  "I  hope  he'll  come  all  right,"  she 
added,  while  Louise  crossed  the  sanded  floor  as 
noiselessly  as  she  could.  "And — I'm  just  dying  to 
see  him!" 

The  other  girl  nodded  back  hurriedly  from  the 
door,  and  was  off  downstairs. 

Hilda  lay  down  again.  She  even  closed  her  eyes. 
But  she  did  not  sleep  any  more.  A  horrid  little  fear 
clutched  at  her  heart:  What  if  he  should  not  come? 

What  if  Lynndal  Barry  should  turn  out  to  be  an- 
other Richard,  after  all? 


DOWN  in  the  kitchen  Louise  adjusted  the 
generator  of  a  small  oil  stove  on  which 
most  of  the  household  cooking  was  done. 
There  was  an  old  wood  range  in  the  kitchen  also,  but 
that  was  used  only  for  baking.  It  generally  smoked 
and  occasionally  went  out — sometimes  almost  mir- 
aculously. 

Louise  turned  up  the  wicks  of  the  stove  burners, 
made  sure  that  the  fuel  began  soaking  freely  up  into 
them,  and  finally  applied  the  flame  of  a  match. 
Then  she  put  on  the  teakettle  and  fetched  a  frying 
pan  from  a  hook  nearby.  Not  even  young  ladies 
flying  grandly  off  to  meet  their  lovers  ought  to  go 
without  breakfast. 

Louise,  though  she  might,  perhaps,  have  been  par- 
doned for  overlooking  so  merely  sensible  a  detail 
as  this,  was  really  treating  the  whole  situation  most 
rationally.  It  was  part  of  her  fine,  mature  calmness 
— the  calmness  she  so  wished  Richard  might  behold. 
Playing  now — and  very  convincingly,  too — the  role 
of  cook,  she  measured  coffee,  got  out  eggs,  cut  some 
bread.  Yes,  all  this  was  part  of  her  magnificent 
calmness.  It  was  indeed  a  pity  Richard  couldn't  be 
here  to  see  how  altered  she  was — how  unlike  the  im- 

25 


26  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

pulsive,  unschooled,  hyper-romantic  girl  who  had 
submitted  to  his  fickle  attractions.  Her  cheeks 
would  burn,  even  now,  with  inextinguishable  chagrin, 
when  she  reflected  how  painfully  one-sided  the 
wretched  affair  had  been.  Ah,  it  had  constantly 
been  he  who  did  the  attracting,  she  who  fluttered 
about  like  a  silly,  puzzled  moth.  She  would  have 
gone  without  her  breakfast  every  day  in  the  week 
for  Richard.  But  with  Lynndal,  thank  heaven,  all 
was  quite  different.  Now  it  was  obviously  and  ad- 
mittedly she  who  was  doing  the  attracting.  Of 
course  she  admired  Lynndal  tremendously,  and  loved 
him.  Oh,  of  course  she  loved  him.  She  even  loved 
him  very  much,  else  would  she  be  engaged?  No, 
but  the  point  was  that  this  time  her  eyes  were  open. 
They  were  wide  open,  as  eyes  should  be.  She  wasn't, 
this  time,  blinded  by  a  fatal  glitter  of  wit  and  the 
subtle  persuasion  of  manners  other  and  more  exqui- 
site than  any  she  had  hitherto  encountered.  Lynndal 
was  totally  unlike  Richard.  Lynndal  steadfastly 
adored  her.  He  even  worshipped  her.  He  said  so, 
though  with  homely  and  restrained  rhetoric,  in  his 
letters.  Yes,  she  knew  that  Lynndal  was  deeply  and 
lastingly  in  love  with  her.  So  this  affair  couldn't, 
it  was  plain  to  be  seen,  turn  out  the  way  the  other 
had. 

She  sang,  though  very  judiciously,  under  her 
breath,  as  she  sped  about  preparing  the  hurried 
meal.  The  water  boiled  in  the  kettle.  She  poured 
it  on  the  coffee  grounds?  tossed  in  an  eggshell,  left 


THE   ARRIVAL  27 

the  pot  to  simmer.  Louise  was  really  quite  a  skil- 
ful cook.  Even  the  Rev.  Needham  had  to  admit  that 
this  much,  at  any  rate,  had  been  gained  from  the 
unfortunate  Eastern  schooling.  She  set  some  cups, 
saucers,  and  plates  on  the  kitchen  table.  Then  she 
slipped  out  the  back  door  of  the  cottage  and  along 
a  path  to  a  little  rustic  pavilion  which  they  called  a 
"tea-house" — though,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  tea  never 
figured  in  its  usefulness.  In  the  "tea-house"  Leslie 
now  was  waiting.  The  path  leading  to  it  had  been 
blazed  through  thick  forest  growth.  Dewy  shoots 
and  leaf  clusters  brushed  her  as  she  skipped  by. 
The  sun  was  already  up,  but  under  the  trees,  and 
especially  down  in  the  little  hollow  she  had  to  cross, 
all  was  dusky  and  still  night-touched. 

Leslie  saw  her  coming  and  jumped  up.  He 
waited  for  her  in  the  rustic  doorway. 

"Good  morning!"  she  called  to  him  out  of  the  tiny 
valley.  "We  mustn't  wake  the  cottagers,"  she 
cautioned,  coming  to  him  and  dropping  for  a  mo- 
ment, rather  breathless,  on  one  of  the  rustic  benches. 

"People  ought  to  get  up  earlier,"  observed  Leslie 
in  a  voice  he  just  noticeably  wanted  to  keep  quite 
as  usual.  "They  don't  know  what  they  miss." 

"It  is  lovely,  isn't  it?"  the  girl  agreed,  abruptly 
turning  and  looking  off  to  sea. 

The  view  from  this  perch  was  quite  extensive.  It 
was  a  nook  particularly  popular  with  admirers  of 
sunsets.  At  this  early  hour  the  sun  was  not  high 
enough  to  touch  the  smooth  beach  below,  but  it 


28  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

lighted  the  sky,  in  a  lustrous,  haunting  way,  and 
flashed  against  the  wings  of  skimming  gulls. 

However,  exquisite  though  the  morning  undeni- 
ably was,  it  did  not  seem  the  proper  occasion  for  any 
rhapsodising.  Indeed,  the  occasion  did  not  afford 
even  space  for  decent  enjoyment  at  all.  To  Louise 
the  morning  appeared  busy  rather  than  fair.  She 
was  still  sufficiently  young,  for  all  her  esteemed 
calmness,  to  look  upon  life,  and  in  this  case  especi- 
ally the  operations  of  the  natural  world,  with  in- 
tensely personal  eyes.  Nature  was  rather  an  ad- 
junct, even  a  casual  one  at  that,  than  something  in- 
finitely greater  than  herself.  She  and  her  interests 
must  come  first.  If  convenience  permitted,  the  glory 
of  the  sunrise  might  be  saluted  in  passing.  It  could 
be  said  of  Miss  Needham  that  she  had  a  bowing  ac- 
quaintance with  the  universe. 

"I'm  getting  us  a  bite  of  breakfast,  Les,"  she  told 
him.  "You  don't  mind  eating  in  the  kitchen?" 

"Hardly!"  replied  her  companion,  with  the  reck- 
less air  of  one  who  would  possibly  like  to  explain 
that  even  kitchens  would  lose  any  customary  odium 
which  might  attach  to  them,  were  she  to  grace  them 
with  her  presence.  Of  course  Leslie  didn't  voice 
any  such  sentimental  and  flamboyant  thought. 
There  was  surprisingly  little  mawkishness  about  Les- 
lie, despite  his  dangerous  age.  He  seemed  a  seri- 
ous fellow,  though  not  perhaps  exceptionally  so.  It 
was  a  seriousness  which  embraced  all  the  lighter 
moods.  Leslie  was  the  sort  of  chap  who  could  con- 


THE   ARRIVAL  29 

verse  intelligently  with  older  people,  yet  lure  out 
the  best  laughs,  too,  from  a  juvenile  crowd.  It  was 
this  fortunate  poise  that  guarded  him,  generally, 
against  pitfalls  of  the  heroic. 

"I  suppose  we  might  have  been  able  to  get  some 
breakfast  in  Beulah,"  he  said  doubtfully. 

But  he  smiled  with  Louise  as  she  shook  her  head. 
Breakfast  would  be  more  reliable  in  the  Needham 
kitchen.  And  she  rose  and  led  the  way  back  down 
the  path. 

"You're  sure  the  boat's  in  good  condition  for 
the  run?"  she  asked  anxiously  over  her  shoulder. 

"Oh,  yes." 

"It  would  be  awful  to  break  down  half  way  over 
and  miss  the  train." 

"It  won't,  Louise.  You  won't  miss  your  train." 
He  spoke  a  little  bitterly. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Leslie  had  been  up  half  the 
night  tinkering  with  his  engine — which  accounted 
for  his  fine  assurance.  Louise  was  painfully  aware 
that  the  engine  couldn't  be  consistently  banked  on. 
It  didn't,  as  a  general  thing,  receive  the  most  scru- 
pulous sort  of  care.  The  Leslian  poise  had  its 
lapses. 

They  crept  with  admirable  stealthiness  into  the 
kitchen,  whose  habitual  odour  of  spices  and  damp 
cereal  products  was  now  broken  by  the  livelier 
aroma  of  steaming  coffee.  There  was  only  one 
chair  in  the  kitchen.  When  Eliza  the  cook  received 
her  young  man,  who  was  the  porter  of  a  resort  hotel 


30  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

in  Beulah,  it  was  invariably  in  what  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham  liked  to  call  God's  Great  Out-of-Doors — that 
most  capacious  and  in  many  respects  best  furnished 
of  receiving  parlours,  after  all.  Invariably — that 
is,  of  course,  except  when  it  rained.  When  it  rained 
Eliza  and  her  young  man  had  an  entrancing  way  of 
conceiving  the  single  chair  sufficient. 

Louise  signified  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  that 
Leslie  was  to  go  into  the  dining  room,  ever  so 
quietly,  and  fetch  another  chair.  He  did  so,  and  set 
both  chairs  beside  the  kitchen  table,  at  the  places 
marked  out  already  with  plates,  cups,  and  imitation 
silver.  Then  he  sat  down,  thrust  his  elbows  on  the 
oilcloth,  and  gazed  ruefully  between  his  fists  at  the 
young  lady  who,  still  in  the  guise  of  cook,  was  flut- 
tering about  in  the  manner  of  young  ladies  who  do 
not  perhaps  feel  quite  at  home  in  their  work,  yet 
who  would  defy  you  to  point  out  one  single  item 
not  accomplished  according  to  the  very  best  methods. 
He  watched  her  with  a  mournful  intensity,  which, 
had  it  possessed  a  little  less  positive  feeling,  would 
surely  be  called  a  fixed  stare.  She  turned  round 
presently  and  discovered  his  attitude. 

"For  goodness'  sake,"  she  whispered,  "what  makes 
you  look  at  me  that  way?" 

He  shifted  his  gaze  to  the  still  trees  outside  and 
began  humming. 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  looking  at  you  any  special 
way.  And  anyhow,  if  I  was,  you  know  why,"  he 
told  her,  with  a  slight  effect  of  baffled  yet  defiant 


THE   ARRIVAL  31 

contradiction  which  was  immediately  muffled  by  a 
renewed  humming. 

"Leslie,  you  know  we  talked  it  all  over  yester- 
day." 

"I  know,  I  know." 

"And  you  said  it  was  all  right.  You  said  you 
understood.  There  wasn't  going  to  be  any  kind  of 
misunderstanding.  .  .  ." 

"There  isn't  any  misunderstanding.  Why  do  you 
jump  on  me?  I  didn't  begin  talking  about  it." 

This  was  manifestly  true.  However,  she  handled 
it  deftly.  "You  don't  have  to  talk  when  you  look 
that  way." 

"Sorry!"  snapped  Leslie,  who  began  moodily  tap- 
ping with  his  fingers  on  the  oilcloth.  Without  real- 
izing it,  he  was  tapping  the  same  tune  he  had  just 
been  humming. 

She  flushed  a  little,  and  felt  a  brief  angriness 
toward  him.  Had  she  given  words  to  what  was, 
for  a  moment,  really  in  her  mind,  she  would  have 
maintained,  and  not  without  honest  warmth,  that  a 
man  you  have  jilted  hasn't  any  right  to  feel  hurt. 
But  a  moment  later  this  conception  did  not  seem 
quite  so  honest.  No^  it  didn't  honour  her.  She 
knew  it  didn't.  And  ere  she  had  drawn  three  breaths 
she  was  thinking  of  Leslie  with  considerably  more 
tenderness.  However,  in  this  connection,  as  with 
the  momentary  impatience,  sentiment  did  not  spend 
itself  in  words.  She  merely  asked  him,  in  a  very 
kindly  way,  how  he  liked  his  eggs  best. 


32  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"I  don't  care,"  he  replied,  employing  the  colour- 
less masculine  non-assertiveness  usual  in  such  cases. 

"Do  you  like  them  scrambled." 

He  nodded  drearily. 

"Then  we'll  have  them  scrambled,"  she  announced 
with  a  cheerful  smile,  breaking  several  eggs  acros8 
the  edge  of  a  bowl,  adding  a  little  milk,  as  care- 
fully measured  off  as  though  it  were  vanilla  for  a 
cake,  and  proceeding  slightly  to  beat  the  combina- 
tion. There  seemed  something  ungraspably  and 
very  subtly  characteristic  in  the  decision  to  scramble 
them.  .  .  . 

In  no  time  the  two  were  Seated  at  breakfast. 

She  grew  chatty.  "I'm  sorry  there  isn't  any  toast, 
Les.  We  can't  make  decent  toast  over  an  oil  fire. 
We've  tried  it,"  she  expanded  with  labelled  signifi- 
cance, spreading  butter  on  a  rather  dry  slice  of 
bread. 

The  bread  that  was  dry  today  might  be  soggy  to- 
morrow. It  should  be  noted  in  passing  that  up  here 
in  the  woods  the  supplies  showed  a  tendency  to  grow 
either  very  soggy  or  very  dry.  In  fact,  the  bread 
and  pastry  boxes  were  often  the  most  infallible  of 
barometers. 

Leslie  perjured  himself  with  an  assurance  that 
the  bread  was  delicious. 

"In  town,"  she  went  on,  pouring  the  coffee,  "we 
have  an  electric  toaster.  We  have  it  on  the  table 
and  make  toast  ag  we  want  it.  I  wish  we  had  it  up 
here!" 


THE   ARRIVAL  33 

"Could  you  make  it  work  with  oil?"  asked  her 
companion  with  sweet  maliciousness. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  sighed.  "I  always  forget. 
I  wish  they'd  run  wires  out  here  to  the  Point.  I  have 
an  electric  curler  at  home,  too.  It's  such  a  bother 
sticking  your  iron  down  the  chimney  of  a  lamp." 

"I  should  think  it  would  be,"  agreed  Leslie,  stir- 
ring his  coffee  and  shepherding  such  of  the  grounds 
as  floated  upon  the  surface  over  to  the  edge  of  the 
cup,  where  they  were  scooped  up  and  deposited  on 
the  saucer. 

They  conversed  for  a  time  on  casual  and  every- 
day topics,  as  people,  even  involved  in  mighty  issues, 
have  rather  a  way  of  doing,  after  all.  She  kept 
warning  him,  with  pretty,  prohibitive  gestures,  not  to 
speak  above  the  safe  pitch  established  upon  their 
entry.  The  warning  was  more  picturesque  than 
really  necessary,  however,  for  Leslie,  just  then,  hap- 
pened to  be  in  a  mood  far  from  boisterous. 

"Oh,  dear!  I  forgot  to  dash  cold  water  into  the 
pot  before  I  took  it  off!"  she  cried  in  some  dismay, 
as  she  observed  his  slightly  exaggerated  preoccupa- 
tion with  the  floating  intruders.  "It  boiled  the  last 
thing.  I  thought  the  fire  was  turned  out  under  it, 
but  it  wasn't."  , 

"What  difference  does  it  make?"  the  lad  pro- 
tested with  lugubrious  gallantry. 

And  he  desisted  from  his  efforts  and  drank  his 
coffee  down,  grounds  and  all,  in  rather  impolite 
gulps. 


34  THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

Louise,  just  at  this  stage,  turned  her  attention  to 
her  own  cup.  There  was  one  lonesome  ground 
drifting  aimlessly  and  forlornly  round  and  round  in 
obedience  to  the  impetus  of  a  current  set  in  motion 
by  the  recent  stirring.  She  had  poured  her  own  cup 
last,  which  explained  its  being  so  much  clearer  than 
his. 

"Oh,  look  here,  Les!"  she  exclaimed,  following 
the  solitary  coffee  ground  in  the  air  with  the  tip  of 
her  spoon.  "There's  just  one.  That  means  a  vis- 
itor, doesn't  it?"  She  coloured  a  little,  and  lifted 
the  oracle  up  gently. 

Leslie  shrugged,  conspicuously  bored,  and  devoted 
himself  moodily  to  what  remained  of  his  share  of 
the  eggs.  "I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

But  she  couldn't  be  swayed  from  her  zeal.  She 
was  determined  to  be  agreeable — especially  when  it 
was  possible  to  come  upon  such  agreeable  specula- 
tions as  this.  "There's  something  about  finding 
money  on  top  of  your  coffee,"  she  embroidered, 
"though  you  can  always  make  some  come  if  you 
hold  the  pot  high  enough  as  you  pour.  But  you  see 
you  can't  make  a  visitor  unless  there  is  one." 

And  Leslie  heroically  refrained  from  suggesting 
that  even  visitors  might  be  warded  off  if  one  didn't 
forget  the  dash  of  cold  water.  However,  he  did  re- 
mind her  that  there  needed  no  signs  to  tell  her  there 
was  a  visitor  on  the  way.  And  he  added,  with  rather 
juvenile  petulance:  "I  guess  he'd  come  if  there 
weren't  any  grounds  in  the  pot!" 


THE   ARRIVAL  35 

But  this  riled  her.  "I  don't  mean  to  sit  here  and 
listen  to  you  speaking  disrespectfully  of  Mr.  Barry! 
He's  much  older,  and  you  can't  treat  him  as  you 
would  one  of  the  boys." 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  her  friend  returned,  vaguely, 
yet  still  somehow  pointedly. 

She  smiled,  erasing  the  friction  from  their  talk. 
"In  the  case  of  the  coffee  grounds,  as  I  understand  it, 
if  it  seems  soft  it's  a  lady,  and  if  it's  hard  it's  a  man. 
Am  I  all  wrong?  Is  it  tea  leaves  I'm  thinking  of? 
At  any  rate,  we'll  experiment!"  She  eyed  her 
companion  with  coy  and  almost  vicious  pleasure. 
"Perhaps  this  one's  only  Aunt  Marjie,  who's  already 
here." 

She  carried  the  problematical  atom  to  her  teeth. 
The  test,  which  she  strove  to  make  momentous,  was 
one  to  which  Leslie  brought  only  a  melancholy  in- 
terest. She  set  her  teeth  firmly  together.  There  was 
a  little  brittle  crack.  The  indisputable  fact  that  it 
was  Lynndal  Barry  thrust  between  them  a  short 
silence. 


IT  was  a  subject  to  which  they  had  come  round, 
almost  automatically,  at  intervals,  ever  since 
the  letter  arrived. 

Ah,  the  letter,  the  fateful  letter!  The  letter  ad- 
vising her  that  the  man  to  whom  she  was  virtually 
engaged  would  put  in  an  appearance  on  such  and 
such  a  day! 

Upon  its  receipt  Louise  had  proceeded  with  real 
candour.  The  letter,  or  rather  the  important  impli- 
cation it  contained,  was  discussed  at  once.  Oh,  yes. 
She  went  at  once  to  Leslie  with  her  sinister  yet  thrill- 
ing confession.  Louise  Needham  was  fundamentally 
an  honest,  an  even  straight-forward  young  person. 
Fundamentally:  though  the  roots  were  not,  it  is  true, 
always  called  upon.  The  mistakes  she  made  were 
rather  faults  of  judgment  than  altogether  of  a  slum- 
bering conscience.  Indeed,  there  had  been  numer- 
ous occasions  when  her  life  would  have  moved  much 
more  smoothly  had  she  been  less  blunt,  or  had  her 
personal  psychology  possessed  a  few  more  curves. 
But  this  type  of  downrightness  had  been  sternly 
inculcated.  It  was  in  the  blood.  The  Rev.  Need- 
ham  maintained  that  a  square,  simple,  stalwart  at- 
titude toward  the  world  was  the  very  cornerstone  of 


THE   ARRIVAL  37 

security  and  peaceful  living;  and  he  had  quotations 
out  of  the  Scriptures  to  back  it  up.  Yes,  Louise  had 
gone  to  Leslie  at  once.  True,  she  hadn't  just  hap- 
pened to  speak  about  Lynndal  before — that  is,  she 
hadn't  quite  painted  the  relationship  in  its  true  col- 
ours, which  naturally  amounted  to  the  same  thing. 
As  for  this  silence — well,  she  would  argue  that  it 
was  in  no  real  sense  a  deception,  because  the  engage- 
ment (there  was  no  ring  as  yet)  wasn't  public  prop- 
erty. No,  it  was  strictly  an  affair  existing  between 
herself  and  Lynndal.  In  a  way,  Leslie  ought  to  con- 
sider himself  honoured  to  be  consulted  at  all. 

"Well,  he'll  be  here  in  a  few  hours  now,"  mourned 
the  honoured  individual  as  they  walked  along  to- 
gether through  the  woods  toward  Crystal  Lake  and 
the  little  launch.  "Then  goodnight  for  me!" 

"Les,  please  don't  talk  like  that.  You'd  think 
we  couldn't  even  be  friends  any  more." 

"Friends!"  He  had  been  suffered  to  call  her 
more  endearing  names  throughout  the  span  of  the 
past  few  weeks. 

"I'm  sure  we'll  always  be  the  best  sort  of  friends, 
Leslie." 

But  he  couldn't  see  it.  "I'm  going  back  to  the 
city!"  It  was  about  as  close  to  heroics  as  he  ever 
verged. 

And  following  this  highly  dramatic  climax  there 
was  a  little  space  of  silence.  They  walked  on,  side 
by  side.  Louise  began  to  realize  how  unwise  she 
had  been. 


38  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

This  walk  through  the  forest  of  Betsey  was  ordin- 
arily a  very  wonderful  experience.  Of  course,  how- 
ever, upon  this  occasion,  neither  of  the  young  persons 
concerned  was  in  any  mood  to  appreciate  it.  For 
her  part,  if  consulted,  Louise  would  reply  that  she 
had  no  time.  Still,  for  all  that,  the  experience  was 
(potentially)  a  delight;  for  here  one  discovered  a 
true,  unspoiled  natural  loveliness,  even  a  kind  of 
sylvan  grandeur.  The  way,  all  underneath  greenery 
thickly  arched,  wound  up  and  down.  From  every 
eminence  the  neighbouring  valleys  appeared  sunk 
to  an  almost  ghostly  declivity;  but  from  the  valleys 
themselves,  the  uplands,  with  their  rich  tangled 
approaches,  soared  grandly  toward  a  heaven  in- 
visible for  leafy  vaulting.  At  this  early  hour  the 
summits  were  a  little  dusky,  while  the  depressions 
slept  in  deep  shade.  The  full,  fair  rays  of  the  up- 
rising sun  shot  across  the  exposed  tops  of  the  higher 
levels  of  forest,  and  here  and  there  even  the  loftier 
stretches  of  path  would  be  dappled  with  furtive 
annunciatory  splashes.  In  the  forest  it  was  cool  and 
buoyantly  fresh,  though  heat  was  already  quivering 
up  off  the  open  stretches  of  sand  skirting  the  smaller 
lake.  It  promised  to  be  one  of  the  warm  days  of 
a  rather  grudging  season. 

"Les,"  she  said  finally,  "why  do  you  talk  about 
going  back  to  the  city?" 

"Because  I  don't  care  to  stay  up  here  and.  .  .  ." 
If  concluded,  the  sentence  would  have  run:  "and  see 


THE   ARRIVAL  39 

you  together."  But  he  thought  better  of  it.  Poise 
saved  him.  He  compressed  his  lipg. 

"Oh,  Les,  don't  make  it  so  hard  for  me!" 

"You  didn't  spare  me/"  he  replied  grimly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Her  eyes  were  a  little 
wide. 

"H'm.  .  .  ." 

"Tell  me,  Les.  We  can't  go  on  this  way."  She 
meant  that  she  would  find  it  uncomfortable — a  cloud 
for  her  present  satisfaction  with  life. 

"You  knew  how  I  felt.  You  knew  all  about  it. 
Yet  you  didn't  send  me  packing,  or  try  to  drop  me. 
You  didn't  even  give  me  a  hint  of  how  things  were. 
Do  you  call  that  sparing  a  fellow?" 

His  arraignment  was  almost  bewildering  in  its 
complexity.  But  she  chose  one  indictment  and 
grappled  with  it  valiantly.  "Of  course  I  didn't  try 
to  drop  you.  I  never  treated  any  man  that  way!" 

"Well,"  he  replied  dryly,  "I  wish  you  had." 

"You  wish  I  hadn't  had  anything  to  do  with  you?" 
Such  a  proposition  struck  her  as  unpleasant,  to  a 
marked  degree — even  almost  grotesque. 

He  countered  without  replying:  "Didn't  you  Know 
how  much  I  cared?" 

"Yes,  but  my  goodness,  Les,  must  a  girl  entirely 
shun  a  man  to  prevent  his  falling — I  mean,  to  keep 
him  from  caring  too  much?" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  answered  with  a  sharp  sigh.  "Don't 
mind  me.  Don't  mind  anything  I've  said.  I  guess 


40  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

I'll  get  over  it — especially  since  it  seems  that  you 
didn't  feel  at  all  the  way  I  did,  and  I  was  merely 
making  a  fool  of  myself."  It  was  a  cup  of  highly 
flavoured  bitterness. 

"Oh,  please  don't  say  such  a  thing  as  that!  You 
know  I  told  you  all  along,  Leslie,  that  I — that  I  had 
a  friend  in  Arizona,  and  I — well,  you  see  I  somehow 
felt  you'd  understand.  I  didn't  know  the  things  we 
did — I  mean  I  didn't  realize  our  being  together  so 
much  meant  anything  except  that  we — well,  that  we 
liked  each  other  and  wanted  to  be  together.  .  .  ." 

She  felt  it  was  just  a  little  lame,  and  began  laying 
about  for  more  forcible  expression.  Meanwhile, 
Leslie  muttered:  "No,  those  things  never  do  mean 
any  more,  I  guess." 

"But  Leslie,  dear — " 

She  spoke  unwisely.  At  the  familiar  word  of 
affection,  which  had  thrilled  him  so  often  during 
the  unmolested  weeks — that  wonderful  span  shat- 
tered by  the  arrival  of  the  letter  from  Arizona — Les- 
lie momentarily  forgot  about  his  dark  humili- 
ation. He  forgot  everything  but  the  fact  of  the 
woman  beside  him.  He  seized  her  swinging  hand; 
gripped  it.  And  then  they  paused,  further  progress 
along  the  sun-flecked  way  seeming  inhibited  by  some 
subtle  agent  in  league  with  the  emotion  which  swept 
over  them  both. 

Oh,  Eros!     Are  your  agents  everywhere? 

From  gripping  her  hand  he  unexpectedly  and 
rather  bafflingly  had  her  in  his  arms.  And  she 


THE   ARRIVAL  41 

presented,  for  just  that  charged  moment,  no  resist- 
ance, but  relaxed  there  with  a  little  inarticulate, 
troubled,  withal  surrendering  cry. 

"Louise!" 

"Oh,  Les!" 

When  they  had  kissed  he  broke  the  curious  spell 
by  demanding,  with  considerable  passion,  why,  if 
she  really  did  care,  she  was  so  willing  to  throw  him 
over  for  another  man.  It  seemed  a  pivotal  question. 
It  seemed  an  unanswerable  -one,  even,  in  the  light 
of  what  had  just  occurred.  But  Miss  Needham, 
now  the  spell  was  broken  and  she  could  breath- 
lessly begin  getting  hold  of  herself  again,  proved 
magnificently  equal  to  it.  The  beauty  of  the 
Needham  logic  was  just  that  it  could  always 
find  an  answer  to  every  question,  however  pivotal 
— some  kind  of  answer,  that  is. 

"Oh,  Leslie!"  she  cried.  "Don't  you  see?  I'm 
not  throwing  you  over.  Not  the  way  you  want  to 
make  it  seem.  I  care  for  you  just  the  same  as — yes, 
as  I  ever  did!  Why  shouldn't  I?"  she  demanded, 
with  vague  defiance.  "Only  I — I  suppose  some  of 
the  things  we've  done — what  we  just  did.  .  .  . 
Well,  and  the  other  times,  aren't — I  suppose  they 
wouldn't  be  quite  right  if  I'm  to  be  formally  en- 
gaged. But  you  see  I — I've  looked  upon  this  en- 
gagement— I  mean  I've  looked  upon  it  as  not  quite 
settled  yet.  .  .  ."  She  faltered  and  spoke  more 
thickly,  as  though  getting  down  to  cold  facts  some- 
how made  the  whole  business  a  little  tawdry.  "I'm 


42  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

not  wearing  any  ring  yet,  you  see,"  she  went  on, 
waving  her  hand  before  them  a  trifle  awkwardly, 
and  laughing  with  constraint.  "And  as  long  as  Mr. 
Barry  and  I  aren't  really  engaged — not  quite  in  the 
usual  way  yet,  I  mean — I  didn't  see — I  don't  see 
now  what  harm  there  is  in  making — well,  new 
friends." 

It  was  an  amazing  speech.  It  was  a  wonderful 
speech.  He  offered  no  immediate  reply  to  it. 
What  could  he  say?  The  fact  is,  he  had  never  heard 
just  such  a  speech  as  this  in  his  life,  and  found  him- 
self, not  perhaps  unreasonably,  a  little  bit  bewil- 
dered by  it.  None  of  the  lessons  in  feminine  psy- 
chology he  had  learned  thus  far  had  just  prepared 
Leslie  for  such  a  speech  as  this.  As  abruptly  as 
they  had  paused,  the  two  now  resumed  their  walk. 
And  from  this  moment  his  attitude  toward  her  was 
also  altered. 

Louise  started  slightly,  as  though  for  the  first 
time  fully  realizing  what  had  just  taken  place.  She 
glanced  at  her  wrist  watch.  It  was  ten  minutes  to 
five  by  the  tiny  dial. 

"I  hope  we  can  make  it,"  she  said  anxiously.  The 
return  to  her  former  preoccupations  might  have 
struck  a  disinterested  observer  as  bizarre,  though 
of  course  Louise  wasn't  conscious  of  anything  like 
that.  She  was  not  conscious  of  anything  bizarre  at 
all.  It  was  really  extraordinary,  at  times,  how  free 
from  any  blemish  of  self-consciousness  she  seemed 
to  be.  This  was  her  way:  giving  herself  over  en- 


THE   ARRIVAL  43 

tirely  to  one  thing  at  a  time.  Curiously  enough,  it 
even  had  something  to  do  with  what  has  (carefully 
weighing  values)  been  called  her  fundamental 
honesty;  though  here,  as  so  often  with  her,  the  true 
spring  was  not  involved.  Concentration  was  one  of 
the  sturdy  precepts  expounded  by  the  Rev.  Alfred 
Needham.  The  influence  of  this  father  was  very 
strongly  marked  in  the  daughter.  But  as  for  Leslie, 
he  was  keenly  conscious,  walking  beside  her  through 
the  lovely  forest  of  Betsey,  of  a  shift  which  seemed  to 
him  untimely  and  again  humiliating.  He  grew  re- 
served and  cold;  walked  along  in  silence.  However, 
his  thoughts  were  busy.  And  the  more  he  thought  of 
it,  the  more  convinced  he  was  that  that  phrase  of  hers: 
"I  don't  see  what  harm  there  is  in  making  new 
friends,"  sounded  a  warning  which  he  must  heed! 
Louise  glanced  again  at  her  watch  to  make  quite 
sure  she  had  read  the  hour  aright. 

"Les,"  she  demanded,  wholly  consumed  now  with 
the  apprehension  lest  she  miss  her  train,  "is  your 
watch  with  mine?" 

"I  have  five  minutes  to  five,"  he  answered  coldly, 
pressing  open  the  case  of  his  old-fashioned  heirloom 
watch  and  quickly  snapping  it  shut  again.  He 
snapped  it  as  quickly  as  he  could  because  he  did  not 
want  to  let  his  eyes  rest  on  the  picture  pasted  inside 
the  case. 

"Do  you  think  we  can  make  it?" 

"I've  made  it  in  less  time,  a  good  deal." 

"Les,"  she  entreated  wanderingly  as  they  emerged 


44  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

from  the  forest  and  scudded  through  the  sand  to  the 
boathouse  where  he  kept  his  little  launch,  "we  simply 
must  be  friends,  whatever  happens." 

She  studied,  though  abstractedly,  the  settling  look 
of  antipathy  on  his  face.  She  did  not  know  what 
it  meant,  but  instinctivly  she  shuddered  at  it  just 
a  little. 

"Les,  dear,  you  must  let  me  be.  .  .  ." 

His  curiosity  was  aroused,  and  he  broke  with  a 
heavy  bluntness  into  the  groping  silence.  "What?" 

"Why,  I  was  just  going  to  say  you  must  let  me  be" 
— the  inevitable  could  not  be  restrained — "be  like  a 
sister  to  you.  .  .  ."  And  she  smiled,  even 
through  her  troubled  abstraction.  She  laid  a  hand 
on  his  arm.  "I  know  that  sounds  as  though  it  came 
out  of  a  book,  but  it  expresses  my  thought  as  well 
as  I  know  how.  You  know — you  see  I'm  a  little 
older  than  you — though  I  never  think  of  that.  .  .  ." 

Leslie  dropped  his  arm,  and  her  hand  slid  off.  It 
fell  to  her  side  in  a  limp  way.  She  hardly  noticed 
the  fact,  though.  Her  mind  was  swimming  with  the 
strange  contending  forces  which  seemed,  so  inexplic- 
ably, to  compose  her  life.  She  seemed  all  at  once 
not  to  see  anything  very  clearly.  .  .  . 

They  entered  the  boathouse,  but  Leslie  had  not 
replied  to  the  generous  suggestion,  and  went  with  a 
moody  briskness  about  the  task  of  making  the  small 
craft  ready  for  the  nine-mile  voyage.  Then  he 
helped  her  in;  arranged  a  cushion  or  two.  When  he 
touched  her  there  was  a  mitigated  flash  of  the  old 


THE   ARRIVAL  45 

thrill.  But  the  thrill  seemed  subtly  palpitating,  now, 
with  something  else.  It  was  a  new  and,  oddly 
enough,  a  not  altogether  disagreeable  sensation. 
For  the  first  time,  though  Leslie  didn't  as  yet  clearly 
realize  this,  he  was  looking  at  Miss  Needham  crit- 
ically. He  had  certainly  never  looked  at  her  this 
way  before.  He  noticed  a  tiny  dash  of  powder  she 
hadn't  brushed  off  the  collar  of  her  jacket;  observed 
a  very  faint  and  unobtrusive  hint  of  the  Roman  in  her 
nose.  As  for  her  nose,  he  merely  wondered,  as  he 
coaxed  the  engine  into  activity,  that  he  hadn't  marked 
the  true  line  of  the  bridge  before.  .  .  . 

It  took  nearly  an  hour  to  reach  Beulah,  at  the 
other  end  of  Crystal  Lake.  Louise,  it  fortunately 
developed,  would  make  her  train  easily.  Leslie 
moored  the  launch,  which  had  behaved  surprisingly 
well,  and  escorted  his  passenger  through  the  tiny 
village  to  the  railroad  station.  Little  talk  sped 
between  them.  He  asked  at  what  hour  the  expected 
steamer  was  due.  Eight  o'clock,  she  told  him.  He 
remarked  that  there  would  be  a  good  bit  of  time  to 
consume  after  she  arrived  in  Frankfort,  and  she 
replied,  in  a  mildly  distracted  way,  that  she  didn't 
mind.  But  she  added,  all  the  same,  with  a  little 
petitioning,  blind  burst:  "I  wish  you  were  going  the 
rest  of  the  way  with  me!" 

"I  will  if  you  want  me  to,"  he  answered  listlessly. 
Or  was  he  feigning  listlessness  by  way  of  retrieving 
his  rather  severely  damaged  pride? 


46  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried,  merely  voicing  the  instinc- 
tive contradiction  whch  rose  most  naturally  to  her 
lips.  The  train  was  heard  whistling  in  the  distance. 
Then  she  remembered  something,  and  spoke  with 
greater  assurance  than  had  been  displayed  on  her 
part  since  they  left  the  forest  of  Betsey.  "You're 
expected  back,  you  know,  to  play  tennis.  You  prom- 
ised." She  seemed  almost  relieved,  in  a  way;  yet 
she  could  not  resist,  too,  the  little  muffled  dig.  And 
there  was  also  something  dark  lurking  beneath  both 
the  relief  and  the  dig. 

"I  promised?" 

"Didn't  you  tell  Hilda  you'd  be  back  in  time  for 
the  match?" 

"Oh — yes,"  he  admitted. 

"So  you  see,"  she  laughed,  "you  had  no  thought 
of  going  on  any  farther  than  Beulah!" 

His  just  expressed  willingness  to  accompany  her 
the  rest  of  the  way  had  depended  directly  upon  her 
own  sufficiently  vehement  exclamation:  "I  wish  you 
were  going!"  But  the  way  she  laughed  seemed  to 
imply  a  kind  of  duplicity  in  him  which  brought  a 
flush  to  his  face.  And  he  reminded  her,  with  glacial 
tones:  "You  told  me  all  along  I  could  only  take 
you  as  far  as  Beulah.  You  were  very  positive  about 
it."  The  kindling  distrust  did  not  die  out  of  his1 
eyes. 

"Yes,  I  understand,  Les.  It's  all  right.  Hilda 
will  be  watching  for  you." 

Suddenly  the  train  came  into  view  around  a  bend. 


THE   ARRIVAL  47 

Louise  unconsciously  straightened  her  hat  and  tugged 
at  her  gloves,  as  though  Lynndal  Barry  were  to  be 
met  aboard  the  cars  instead  of  emerging,  ever  so 
much  later,  from  the  boat  in  Frankfort. 

"Good-bye,  Les,"  she  said  warmly. 

"Good-bye." 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  bringing  me." 

He  nodded  away  the  obligation.  Then  the  train 
started,  and  Leslie  turned  back  toward  his  launch. 

A  feeling  of  great  and  wholly  unexpected  tender- 
ness came  upon  Louise.  She  leaned  far  out  of  the 
car  window  to  wave.  He  looked  back,  saw  her,  and 
waved  also;  then  sauntered  coolly  on  toward  the 
dock. 


4 

WHEN  Louise  and  Leslie  walked  together 
through  the  forest  of  Betsey  they  had  not 
as  a  matter  of  fact  passed  entirely  un- 
observed. 

Hilda,  after  her  sister  had  gone  downstairs,  didn't 
remain  long  in  bed.  Right  on  the  heels  of  that  cloudy 
fear  lest  Mr.  Barry  fail  to  arrive  and  Louise's  heart 
be  a  second  time  broken,  there  flashed,  for  Hilda,  a 
fine  little  campaign  in  her  own  behalf.  Hilda's 
education  in  the  great  school  of  love  was  already 
quite  well  launched.  Of  course  she  was  as  yet 
graded  rather  intermediately.  But  Hilda  was  an 
alert  and  ambitious  young  student.  She  told  her- 
self it  would  be  very  much  worth  while  to  observe 
how  an  engaged  lady  behaved  in  the  company  of 
other  men.  Louise  was  a  pattern  for  her  in  so  many 
ways — both  papa  and  mama  kept  insisting.  Why  not 
in  this  also?  She  might  very  possibly  have  need  of 
the  lesson  some  day.  However,  the  real,  specific,  if 
not  exactly  admitted  impulse  behind  her  nimble  relin- 
quishment  of  bed  was  the  plain  desire  just  to  see 
Leslie. 

It  did  not  take  Hilda  long  to  dress.  For  one  thing, 
of  course,  she  dressed  very  simply  up  here  in  the 

48 


THE  ARRIVAL  49 

wilderness.  Louise  dressed  simply  also,  but  not  so 
simply  as  Hilda.  However,  there  was  a  reason  for 
this — a  reason  of  which  Hilda  was  fully  cognisant, 
and  one  to  which  she  was  perforce  reconciled.  Age 
made  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  She  consoled 
herself  with  enormous  bows  on  her  jumpers,  but  also 
with  the  promise  that  there  would  come  a  day  when 
she,  too,  would  dress  less  simply,  even  in  the 
wilderness. 

Hilda  was  listening  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  when 
her  sister  went  up  to  the  "tea-house"  to  summon 
Leslie.  While  the  lower  part  of  the  cottage  was 
thus  momentarily  vacant,  the  girl  stole  down,  making 
comical  faces  of  deprecatory  concern  at  each  separate 
creak.  Then  she  sped  quickly  out  of  the  house  and 
off  through  the  thicket  in  a  direction  oblique  with  the 
path  which  Louise  and  Leslie  were  later  to  take. 
Hilda's  little  by-way  struck  over  two  low  hills  and 
spilled  itself  recklessly  into  the  broader  road  used 
by  the  cottagers  of  Betsey,  at  a  point  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  along,  toward  Crystal  Lake. 

She  was  an  odd,  inquisitive  child,  and  had  a 
genuine  passion  for  watching  the  great  world  spin. 
Wherever  was  the  most  going  on,  there  you  would 
generally  find  Hilda,  an  earnest  observer,  if  age  or 
circumstance  unfortunately  forbade  her  active  par- 
ticipation. She  knew  far  more  about  the  people 
who  summered  at  Point  Betsey  than  any  one  dreamed. 
Hilda  had  a  hammock  strung  up  in  an  invisible  bower 
just  beyond  the  spot  where  the  little  path  lost  itself. 


50  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

There  was  only  a  dust-powdered  screen  of  boughs 
and  bushes  between  it  and  the  road.  The  hammock, 
handed  down  to  her  when  the  Rev.  Needham  invested 
in  a  fine  new  one  for  the  cottage,  had  seen  more  than 
a  season  of  unroofed  service,  and  was  consequently 
rather  inclined  to  be  stringy.  It  was,  in  point  of 
fact,  a  very  dilapidated  hammock  indeed.  But 
Hilda  esteemed  it  highly.  She  thought  it  a  very  es- 
timable hammock — had  a  real  affection  for  it.  Hers 
was  happily  the  age  when  rags  are  royal  rai- 
ment— without  the  solemn,  limiting  balance  of  that 
sublime  and  classic  exclamation. 

She  reached  this  secret  nook  quite  out  of  breath. 
Of  course  there  was  no  real  need  for  all  this  haste. 
She  knew  there  wasn't.  But  youth  does  not  loiter  on 
such  errands.  She  flung  herself  down  in  the  ham- 
mock and  for  a  time  lay  still.  It  was  cool  here,  and 
hazy  with  dawn.  To  one  side  of  her  the  scrub 
thicket,  sprinkled  with  sturdier  growth,  lay  almost 
stygian;  to  the  other  side  was  the  Betsey  road,  a 
bright,  tortuous  band  of  morning,  threading  the 
Betsey  woods  as  though  it  were  the  path  of  some  ex- 
ploring courier  of  Sol.  Through  the  flimsy  fagade 
of  leaves  the  light  of  morning  streamed  into  Hilda's 
bower  with  a  mistily  tempered  shine.  Though  am- 
ple, this  screen  afforded  plenty  of  peepholes;  and 
naturally  Hilda  knew  them  all.  If  a  storm  threshed 
through  the  forest  and  wrenched  wisps  of  woodbine 
into  a  different  position,  or  whipped  the  heavier 
undergrowth  into  a  new  pattern,  temporary  or  per- 


THE   ARRIVAL  51 

manent  as  the  case  might  be,  the  girl  was  quick  to 
perceive  the  new  order  of  things  and  to  train  her  eye 
to  the  altered  scope  of  vision.  She  lay  now  in  the 
hammock,  regaining  her  breath,  and  swung  herself 
gently  back  and  forth  with  the  aid  of  a  stout  wild 
grape  tendon. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  wild  life  all  about  her: 
birds  and  squirrels  and  chipmunks  and  queer  little 
humming,  whirring,  chirping  insects.  Some  seasons 
certain  of  the  cottagers  brought  up  household  cats 
with  them  from  town,  when  it  might  be  observed 
that  the  birds  and  squirrels  were  much  less  in  evi- 
dence— much  more  wary  and  reserved  in  their  de- 
portment. But  as  it  chanced,  this  year  there  wasn't 
a  cat  on  the  Point,  and  the  woods  were  full  of  day- 
long frolic. 

Hilda  had  some  time  to  wait.  The  two  persons 
on  whom  her  innocent  espionage  was  designed,  loi- 
tered, as  we  have  seen,  through  their  breakfast;  and 
the  little  girl  was  almost  ready  to  persuade  herself 
that  Louise  and  Leslie  must  have  taken  the  much 
longer,  circuitous  northern  route,  when  suddenly  she 
heard  their  voices. 

They  appeared  to  be  talking  softly,  as  though  still 
imbued  with  dawn-cautiousness,  even  where  there 
was  no  longer  the  possibility  of  disturbing  any  one's 
slumber.  Hilda,  lying  there  so  still  and  expectant, 
saw  them  walking  together  along  the  road.  Leslie's 
eyes  pursued  the  ground  he  was  treading,  but  Louise 
was  glancing  anxiously  up  at  him. 


52  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"You  would  think  we  couldn't  even  be  friends  any 
more,"  she  was  saying. 

And  then  Hilda  heard  the  lad  beside  her  mutter: 
"Friends!" — in  that  tone  that  appeared  to  embody 
so  much.  .  .  . 

"I'm  sure  we'll  always  be  the  best  sort  of  friends, 
Leslie,"  Louise  said  warmly. 

And  then  they  were  almost  beyond  hearing.  How- 
ever, Hilda  caught  Leslie's  thick  communication 
about  going  back  to  the  city,  and  it  troubled  her  a 
good  deal.  She  slipped  out  of  the  hammock  and 
peeped  through  the  shielding  leaves.  She  thought  to 
herself:  "How  well  they  look  together!"  And  she 
seemed  suddenly  full  of  a  vague  unhappiness.  Out 
of  a  subsequent  observation:  "Louise  always  looks 
well  with  men,"  Hilda  did  not  for  some  reason  or 
other,  glean  the  poor  ounce  of  consolation,  regarding 
Leslie,  that  might  appear  nestling  there. 

She  left  her  bower  and  returned  to  the  cottage  in 
a  rather  soberer  mood,  along  the  open  road  they  had 
so  recently  traversed. 


The  summer  rising  of  the  parent  Needhams  regu- 
larly occurred  about  seven.  In  town,  during  the 
season  of  lengthened  nights,  the  household  was  suf- 
fered to  slumber  perhaps  a  half  hour  longer;  but 
matinal  "dawdling,"  as  the  Rev.  Needham  put  it, 


THE  ARRIVAL  53 

was  a  symptom  of  decadence  to  be  scrupulously  shun- 
ned. The  Rev.  Needham  had  a  rather  definite  per- 
suasion that  all  the  people  in  the  East  inclined  to- 
wards late  rising.  He  had  a  theory  that  a  day  well 
begun  was  bound  to  end  well.  It  didn't,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned — at  least  there 
was  nothing  at  all  dependable  about  it;  but  these  col- 
lapses, these  drab  failures  of  the  real  to  coincide 
with  the  ideal,  these  sloughings  off  from  a  kind  of 
Platonic  scheme  of  perfection,  constituted  what 
stood  as  perhaps  the  reverend  gentleman's  most  dis- 
tinguishing quality.  Here  was  a  man  marked  for  a 
kind  of  almost  rhythmic  disaster.  The  wheel  of  life 
never  ran  smoothly,  but  kept  bumping  over  sly  peb- 
bles of  chagrin  and  disappointment.  The  Rev.  Need- 
ham  was  like  a  Middle  Age  (or  perhaps  early  Chi- 
nese) delinquent,  strung  up  for  chastisement,  his 
arms  pinioned  to  a  beam  overhead,  and  the  mere 
points  of  his  toes  permitted  to  touch  the  ground.  An 
inch  or  a  few  inches  relaxed,  and  he  would  be  all 
right.  If  he  could  only  get  his  heels  down!  But 
that,  alas,  was  just  the  trouble  with  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham:  however  dignified  and  calm  he  might  appear 
externally,  there  never  was,  there  never  could 
sejem  to  be,  an  entire  and  sincere  consciousness 
of  solid  ground  under  his  feet.  Sometimes  he 
would  sigh:  "Ah,  at  last!"  But  anon  there  would 
be  a  devilish  tingling  in  the  heels,  which  would  re- 
mind him  that  they  were  still  upreared.  The  poor 


54  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

man's  destiny  seemed  eternally  a  thing  suspended. 
It  dangled  and  flopped,  like  a  rope's  end  in  nervous, 
persistent  gusts. 

Anna  Needham  relinquished  sleep  at  the  hour  spec- 
ified by  her  spouse  cheerfully,  as  a  rule,  though  there 
were  also  occasions  when  raillery  and  even  discreet 
rib-proddings  entered  into  the  program.  Mrs. 
Needham  was,  of  course,  well  inured  to  these  reg- 
ularities of  routine,  just  as  her  very  fibre  was  tough- 
ened and  moulded  to  the  ministerial  caliber  generally. 
Fundamentally,  she  was  a  person  of  slightly  less 
strenuous  tendencies  than  her  husband.  Anna 
Needham  was  the  type  of  woman  whose  life  is  very 
largely  shaped,  as  is  her  destiny  largely  determined, 
by  the  man  with  whom  she  lives.  Her  nature 
was  naturally  somewhat  more  amenable  than  his. 
Still,  she  had  her  distinct  rebellions,  too.  She  could 
take  a  stand  of  her  own  in  an  hour  of  crisis.  The 
Rev.  Needham's  was  a  nature  that  did  not  weather 
storms  any  too  well.  Yes,  in  time  of  storms  Anna 
was  the  more  seaworthy.  For  one  thing,  perhaps, 
she  had  fewer  ideals.  Thus  she  did  not  experience 
quite  such  blasting  shocks  over  upheavals  and  cat- 
aclysms. But  it  must  be  confessed  that  this  apparent 
stability  was  touched,  perhaps  one  might  say,  rather, 
a  little  diluted  by  a  few  parts  moral  or  intellectual 
laziness.  Comparative  criticism  of  the  Needhams, 
husband  and  wife,  usually  fell  into  two  major  divis- 
ions. There  were,  in  other  words,  two  factions: 
those  who  maintained  she  was  less  profound  than  he, 


THE   ARRIVAL  55 

and  those  who  would  insist  that  she  had  more  common 
sense.  But  that  they  were  economically  well-mated 
seemed  pretty  generally  accepted.  It  was  a  coali- 
tion in  which  appeared  the  very  minimum  of  waste, 
since  one  was  always  ready  (or  in  her  case  per- 
haps merely  inclined)  to  shut  off  the  spigot  of  the 
other's  temperamental  excesses. 

On  this  particular  July  morning  there  wasn't  a 
hint  of  friction  over  the  proposition  of  getting  up. 
The  Rev.  Needham  began  his  brisk,  determined 
stretching  at  the  first  stroke  of  seven.  Anna  lay  pas- 
sive till  the  last  stroke;  but  as  the  strident  and  spite- 
ful clangour  of  the  Dutch  clock  downstairs  resolved 
back  again  into  a  monotonous  though  hardly  less 
crabbed  tick-lock,  tick-lock,  the  lady  yawned  deeply 
and  with  just  a  concluding  gurgle  of  relish.  There 
was  a  guest  already  in  the  house,  another  guest  on  the 
way.  Hostesses,  however  soft  the  bed,  aren't  likely 
to  surrender  to  tempting  inertia  under  such  circum- 
stances. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  bed  was  not  a  very  soft 
one.  Or  rather,  it  was  very  soft  in  places  and  very 
hard  in  others.  Perhaps  one  of  the  enduring  charms 
of  small  resort  cottage  life  is  the  amusing  inequality 
of  things.  The  best  and  the  worst  hobnob.  Lo,  here 
is  a  true  democracy!  And  virtues  utterly  com- 
monplace in  your  urban  menage  may  very  easily 
be  given  a  most  heavenly  lustre  in  the  wilder- 
ness. 

"Well,  Anna,"  he  said,  in  his  best  tone  of  fresh, 


56  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

early  morning  cheerfulness,  "I  guess  it's  time  to  get 
up." 

"Alf,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  was  seven!" 

She  had  counted  the  strokes;  but  it  was  customary 
to  have  a  little  conversation  about  the  time  of  day  be- 
fore arising:  a  sort  of  pleasant,  innocuous  tongue- 
limbering,  a  lubrication  of  the  way  to  more  important 
themes  later  on.  Such  gentle,  indirect  prevarications 
may  perhaps  be  looked  upon  indulgently,  even  when, 
as  in  this  case,  they  crop  out  in  clerical  families. 

The  Rev.  Needham  proceeded  to  dress  and  shave. 

He  was  in  a  good,  confident,  substantial  mood  to- 
day; rose  singing.  The  Rev.  Needham  was  very  apt 
to  arise  with  song  in  his  mouth,  bravely  defying  the 
chance  of  his  going  to  bed  with  a  wail.  This  morn- 
ing the  selection  was  that  fine  old  Laudes  Domini 
which  seemed  peculiarly  appropriate,  both  fitting  the 
hour  and  reflecting  the  joyous  state  of  the  singer's 
heart. 

"When  morning  gilds  the  skies 
My  heart  awaking  cries: 
'May  Jesus  Christ  be  praised!" 

The  Rev.  Needham  had  a  tenor  voice  of  fair  quality, 
though  not  altogether  true  of  pitch.  In  the  wilder- 
ness, so  far  from  pipe  organs,  pitch  however,  dwin- 
led  to  comparative  unimportance.  It  was  the  spirit 
of  song  that  counted. 

Now,  one  might  observe  that  in  this  hymn  the  Rev. 
Needham  would  come  out  very  full  and  strong  on  the 
more  purely  ecstatic  lines  (such,  for  instance,  as  de- 


THE   ARRIVAL  57 

pict  the  spread  of  morning  across  the  heavens,  the 
awaking  of  a  fervent  heart,  etc.),  and  that,  almost 
linvariably,  those  more  climactic,  particularly  the 
more  ecclesiastical,  lines  would  issue  a  little  muf- 
fled, as  the  singer  found  it  urgent  to  immerse  his 
head  in  the  washbowl's  morning  plunge,  or  apply  a 
towel  vigorously,  or  perhaps  bend  suddenly  over  to 
lace  up  his  shoes — by  this  movement  naturally  cut- 
ting down  the  egress  of  breath.  They  were  subtly 
odd,  these  mufflings.  It  was  almost  as  though  Fate 
had  determined  sedulously  to  deny  to  this  unfortun- 
ate man  an  indulgence  in  his  very  life-mission: 
praising  his  Maker!  For  another  than  he  the  inter- 
vals of  competition  might  very  easily  have  fallen 
less  saliently.  Yes,  another  would  have  found  it 
possible  to  cloud  over,  if  necessary,  the  heavenly  gild- 
ing and  would  have  been  suffered  to  come  out  free, 
triumphant,  on  the  diviner  phrases.  But  not  the  Rev. 
Needham.  No,  alas,  not  he.  It  was  a  part  of  the 
Rev.  Needham's  destiny  that  the  better  and  more 
satisfying  arrangement  of  life  must  be  withheld,  or 
temporarily  awarded  only  to  be  broken  rudely  off. 
Inquiry  ought  to  pause  here.  Yes,  it  delicately  and 
righteously  and  above  all  humanely  ought.  No,  it 
ought  not  to  lead  one  away,  fiendishly  to  lure  one 
on  to  a  certain  door  in  one  of  the  three-quarters  par- 
titions, beyond  which  the  slumber  of  a  human  being 
was  giving  place,  at  this  stage,  to  the  more  irregular 
sounds  signifying  a  return  to  consciousness.  Ah, 
better  to  leave  out  altogether  the  thought  of  any 


58  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

mortal  responsibility  for  the  muffling;  better  to  cling 
decently  just  to  the  adverseness  of  an  obdurate  Fate. 
And  yet,  the  tenor  of  the  conversation  which  now 
ensued  between  the  Rev.  Needham  and  his  wife  might 
favour  the  suspicion — let  us  call  it  by  no  stronger 
name — that  the  person  beyond  that  door  in  the  three- 
quarters  partition  had  something  to  do,  however 
slightly,  with  the  matter  of  vocal  emphasis. 

"Anna,"  he  asked  softly,  "do  you  suppose  your  sis- 
ter's awake  yet?" 

"I  don't  know,  Alf .  Perhaps  I'd  better  go  tap  on 
her  door." 

"Oh,  well,  I  wouldn't  disturb  her  just  yet.  Eliza 
is  always  late  with  breakfast."  He  sighed  as  he 
beat  up  the  lather  in  his  mug.  "We  can't  expect 
things  to  run  along  quite  as  smoothly  as  when  we're 
just  by  ourselves." 

"I  told  Marjie  we  made  a  practice  of  getting  up 
at  seven,"  said  Mrs.  Needham  a  little  anxiously. 
She  slipped  a  coloured  silk  petticoat  over  her  head 
and  tied  its  tape  strings  round  her  waist.  Mrs. 
Needham  was  growing  a  bit  stout.  "She  told  me 
if  I  didn't  hear  her  moving  around  I'd  better  tap  on 
her  door." 

"It's  this  air,  I  suppose,  makes  people  sleep  so," 
he  remarked.  And  then  he  added,  displaying  a 
strong  touch  of  nervousness  in  his  tone:  "I  think, 
Anna,  your  sister  is  changed,  somehow." 

"You  think  so,  Alf?     How?" 


THE   ARRIVAL  59 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  it's  our  not  be- 
ing used  to  her  after  so  many  years." 

"You  may  be  right,  Alf.  But  she  talked  real 
sensibly  to  me  yesterday.  We  had  quite  a  long  talk 
in  the  afternoon,  while  you  and  Hilda  were  out  after 
berries.  She  seems  real  sensible,  Alf.  Of  course 
she  does  say  things — " 

"Yes,  she  makes  remarks,  Anna,  that  I  could 
rather  prefer  our  girls  not  to  hear." 

"You  mean  like  what  she  said  at  dinner  about  the 
natives  of  Tahulamaji?" 

"Yes — things  like  that."  And  then  he  confessed 
with  a  nervous  little  gesture:  "I  can't  seem  to  figure 
out  where  Marjory  stands  any  more.  She  talks  with 
a  freedom.  .  .  .  Anna,  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard 
any  one  talk  just  the  way  Marjory  does." 

"You  mean — about  religion,  Alf?" 

"Well,"  he  resumed,  "it  may  be  her  way.  But 
I  can't  say  I  ever  knew  a  woman  to  talk  like  that.  I 
think  Marjory's  very  good-hearted.  She  no  doubt 
means  the  best  in  the  world.  But  somehow.  .  .  ." 
He  turned  toward  his  mate,  poising  the  razor  in  the 
air.  He  looked,  without  of  course  suspecting  it,  al- 
most terrible.  But  he  went  on  with  merely  the  same 
inflection  of  nervous  timidity:  "Anna,  there  are  times 
when  I  suspect  she  doesn't  believe  the  way  we  do 
any  more." 

"Oh,  Alf — do  you  mean — is  it  as  though  she'd 
gone  into  some  other  church?" 


60  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Well,  I  don't  know."  He  resumed  his  shaving 
in  a  troubled,  fidgety  way. 

"Alf,"  she  said  solemnly,  standing  in  the  centre 
of  the  room  with  her  hands  on  her  hips,  where  they 
paused  in  the  act  of  adjusting  the  band  of  her  skirt, 
"Alf,  you — you  don't  think  she  isn't  a  Christian 
any  more?" 

The  Rev.  Needham  nervously  cut  himself  a  little. 
He  laid  down  the  razor  with  a  startled  sigh. 

"Anna,"  said  he,  "how  do  /  know?  If  it  is  true, 
then  it's  one  of  the  things  I've  always  dreaded  so — 
having  atheism  break  out  right  in  the  family!" 

"Oh,  Marjory  cant  be  one  of  those  people!"  her 
sister  cried  earnestly.  "Alf,  we  ought  not  to  judge 
her  so  harshly.  She's  lived  in  foreign  countries  so 
long  that  I  suppose  she's  kind  of  gotten  into  new 
ways  of  speaking.  She  talked  so  sensibly  yester- 
day, Alf — I  kept  wishing  you  could  have  been  there 
to  have  heard." 

"Well,  Anna,"  he  said  quietly,  "Marjory's  your 
sister,  and,  whatever  the  facts,  naturally  I've  noth- 
ing to  say." 

"You  try  and  have  a  good  talk  with  her,  Alf.  I 
never  felt  you  two  understood  each  other  very  well. 
She  don't  talk  so  flippantly  when  there  aren't  other 
people  around.  I'll  fix  it  so  you  two  can  be  alone 
together.  Oh,  Alf,"  she  concluded,  almost  pit- 
eously,  "Marjie  may  have  gone  into  another  church, 
but  I  can't  believe  she's  drifted  any  farther!" 

"I  hope  not,  Anna."     He  tried  to  speak  with  an 


THE   ARRIVAL  61 

air  of  charitable  calm;  but  the  impression  conveyed 
seemed  rather  that  a  disturbance  of  his  own  con- 
victions was  troubling  his  heart  than  that  he  was 
primarily  moved  with  concern  over  his  sister-in-law's 
spiritual  well-being. 

All  persons  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  in- 
fluenced the  Rev.  Needham.  They  influenced  him 
one  way  or  another,  however  transiently.  In  fact, 
when  it  came  to  that,  there  was  seldom  what  one 
would  call  any  really  permanent  influence  exerted. 
Contacts  with  life  merely  kept  him  hopping  back  and 
forth  or  up  and  down.  They  augmented,  were  per- 
haps more  largely  than  anything  else  responsible 
for,  the  poor  man's  perpetual  inner  unrest.  He 
could  not  seem  to  settle  down  to  cool,  steady  views; 
could  not  feel  his  soul  impregnably  at  peace.  But 
then,  in  this  regard  he  seemed,  though  perhaps  in  a 
rather  acutely  pointed  fashion,  logical  fruit  of  his 
time. 

To  be,  for  the  moment,  quite  ruthless  in  one's 
musing  upon  him,  what  would  the  world  say  if  it 
could  really  pry  into  the  tumultuous  inner  conscious- 
ness of  the  Rev.  Needham?  Might  the  world  call 
him  melodramatic,  stagy?  Could  it  actually  be 
brought  against  this  minister  that  he  was,  in  a  sense, 
theatrical?  What  a  blow — and  at  the  same  time 
what  a  terrific  coup  of  irony;  for  the  Rev.  Needham 
would  be  the  very  first  himself  to  cry  out  against  any 
such  trait  as  staginess!  Staginess,  he  would  say,  must 
certainly  have  something  to  do  with  the  so-called 


62  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"culture."  But  the  world  could  never  bring  this 
charge  against  the  Rev.  Needham,  because  the  world, 
one  realizes  with  an  instinctively  grateful  sigh,  was 
denied  the  license  of  prying  inside.  No,  to  the 
world  this  minister  appeared  a  being  not  essentially 
removed  from  the  usual  run  of  beings.  The  world 
by  no  means  thought  of  him  as  a  Chinese  or  Dark 
Age  delinquent  strung  up  for  punishment  in  such  a 
manner  that  his  heels  were  perpetually  off  the  floor. 
He  might  not,  perhaps,  strike  people  as  a  man  of  in- 
tense and  dynamic,  of  unfailingly  clean-cut  personal 
persuasions  about  religion — or,  for  that  matter,  per- 
haps, about  anything  else  in  life.  Nevertheless,  he 
scarcely  stood  out  as  vivid  or  eccentric;  scarcely  like 
a  sore  thumb;  because  nobody  realized  what  he  was 
really  like  inside. 

But  now,  to  return  to  cases,  here  was  Marjory,  his 
wife's  own  sister,  lodged  right  under  his  roof;  and 
she  baffled  him.  He  couldn't  deny  it — could  not 
get  away  from  it.  Yes,  she  baffled  him.  He  felt 
nervous  in  her  presence.  Sometimes  when  she 
would  laugh,  or  look  at  him  in  a  certain  way,  it 
seemed  to  him — it  seemed  to  him — why,  as  though 
he  didn't  know  where  he  stood  any  more.  .  .  . 

Marjory  Whitcom  was  his  sister-in-law,  one  of  the 
family;  and  at  his  own  hearthside,  somehow,  he 
could  not  feel  quite  free.  He  could  not  feel  cheery 
and  at  ease.  And  dimly  it  troubled  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham  to  realize  that  he  felt  this  way. 


THAT  Miss  Whitcom  was  indeed  up  and  stir- 
ring became  evident.  They  heard  her 
gaily  calling  out  to  Hilda,  who  was  com- 
ing up  the  stairs. 

"Dear  child,  see  here  a  minute!" 

Two  doors  opened  then:  hers,  briskly  wide;  the 
Rev.  Needham's  a  furtive  crack. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Marjie?" 

"Honey,  there  isn't  any  water  in  my  pitcher — 
would  you  mind.  .  .  .  ?" 

"Oh,  I'll  fill  it  right  away  for  you,  Aunt  Marjie!" 

"Only  half  full,  honey.  I'd  slip  out  myself  to  the 
pump,  only  I'm  afraid  of  shocking  Eliza  with  my 
wrapper!" 

"I  won't  be  gone  a  minute,  Aunt  Marjie!" 

She  took  the  pitcher,  extended  by  means  of  a 
plump  bare  arm,  and  sped  off  with  it. 

"Alf,"  said  Mrs.  Needham,  "I  forgot  to  tell  Eliza 
the  pitcher  would  have  to  be  filled  every  day." 

"I  suspect  Marjory  is  a  bit  wasteful  of  water,"  he 
observed. 

Here  at  the  Point  there  was  water,  water  every- 
where; yet  the  Needhams  employed  far  less  of  the 

fluid  in  their  daily  toilets  than  they  did  in  the  town. 

M 


64  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

This  is  perhaps  not  infrequently  the  case  at  summer 
resorts  of  the  more  primitive  kind,  where  one  attains 
the  frugal  attitude  generally.  Then,  too,  having  to 
go  out  to  a  pump  for  water  alters  its  preciousness. 
Besides,  as  all  the  Needhams  would  argue:  "We 
go  in  bathing  so  often."  So  the  pitchers  weren't  re- 
filled every  day.  They  were  generally  refilled  about 
two  or  three  times  a  week.  Miss  Whitcom's  pitcher, 
however,  would  have  to  be  put  in  a  class  by  itself. 
That  was  only  too  clear. 

The  Rev.  Needham  tied  his  cravat  before  the 
dresser  glass.  A  few  tiny  drops  of  perspiration 
stood  out  on  his  forehead.  "Yes,"  he  sighed,  "it 
does  upset  things  some." 

"What  say,  Alf  ?"  asked  Anna,  who  was  bending 
over  an  ancient  trunk  in  which  clean  linen  was  kept. 

"I  say,  Eliza  will  just  have  to  get  used  to  filling 
her  pitcher  every  morning." 

"I  guess  so,"  agreed  Mrs.  Needham,  straighten- 
ing, her  face  flushed. 

She  held  a  fresh  towel  in  her  hand,  which  he 
eyed  with  glancing  suspicion. 

"I  got  to  thinking,"  explained  his  wife.  "Per- 
haps she's  used  to  having  a  clean  towel  every  morn- 
ing, too." 

The  minister  compressed  his  lips  almost  imper- 
ceptibly as  she  went  to  her  sister's  door,  the  towel 
over  her  arm.  Hilda,  with  the  pitcher  of  water,  ar- 
rived at  the  same  moment,  so  that  mother  and  daugh- 
ter stood  with  their  respective  burdens  on  Aunt 


THE   ARRIVAL  65 

Marjie's  threshold,  and  even  spoke  together,  like 
rival  hucksters  proclaiming  their  wares. 

"Gracious!"  cried  the  favoured  lady,  opening  her 
door  and  accepting  the  alms.  "Such  magnificent 
service!  Anna,"  she  added,  "don't  you  let  me  put 
you  out.  I  can  easily  live  on  the  view.  You  really 
don't  know  what  this  means,  after  being  cooped  up 
in  a  place  like  Tahulamaji!" 

Miss  Whitcom  was  tall,  and  rather  fine  looking. 
She  was  a  trifle  taller,  for  instance,  than  her  brother- 
in-law,  and  had  a  way,  when  any  discussion  with  him 
was  in  progress,  of  standing  up  quite  close  to  the 
minister,  so  that  she  created  the  illusion,  a  little,  of 
towering  over  him.  She  was  not,  of  course,  actually 
a  great  deal  taller,  but  how  one  could  make  the  sly 
inch  count  at  such  times!  Her  sister  looked  almost 
dumpy  beside  her. 

"I  suppose,"  observed  Mrs.  Needham,  "you  do 
feel  kind  of  cooped  up  in  those  foreign  places. 
That  phrase  of  hers  "foreign  places,"  was  in  the 
nature  of  a  stock  term.  It  was  expansive,  elastic, 
comprehensive.  She  spoke  of  foreign  places  a  little 
as  her  husband  spoke  of  the  East  or  of  "culture." 
Neither  had  travelled  any  to  speak  of.  In  a  sort 
of  whimsical  way  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Needham  that 
one  might  expect  to  find  Bombay  and  Peking  sup- 
porting much  the  same  conditions  of  life.  Or  even 
Dublin  and  Rome,  for  that  matter.  "I  don't  sup- 
pose," she  added,  "there's  anything  like  this  where 
you've  been." 


66  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"I  should  emphatically  say  not"  her  sister  as- 
sured her.  "At  Rato-muh — that's  the  capital,  you 
know — we've  nothing  but  a  dirty  little  river.  I'm 
dying  for  a  glorious  swim!" 

"We  go  bathing  nearly  every  afternoon,  Aunt 
Marjie,"  Hilda  announced. 

"You  do?  Well,  I'm  with  you!"  She  was  just 
a  trifle  loud.  "Do  there  happen  to  be  any  conven- 
ient islands  one  could  swim  out  to?" 

"Oh,  no,  Aunt  Marjie,  there  aren't,"  replied  the 
girl  regretfully,  almost  with  a  touch  of  naive  apol- 
ogy. 

"Well,  no  matter.  You  can  always  swim  round 
in  a  circle,  of  course.  Only  I  do  like  having  a  de- 
finite goal." 

And  then  she  paused  a  moment,  even  suspending 
her  toilet;  for  having  a  goal — hadn't  that  been,  with 
almost  amusing  steadfastness,  her  aim  all  through 
life?  Of  course,  it  was  quite  true:  there  had  been 
perhaps  a  hundred  goals,  all  told;  but  each,  in  its 
own  way,  and  at  its  own  times,  had  seemed  the  golden, 
final  one.  And  always  so  incorrigibly  definite. 
She  had  gone  vibrantly  and  humorously  on  from 
one  pursuit  to  another,  determination  taking  multiple 
form.  And  yet  there  appeared  now  to  have  been, 
all  along,  just  one  permanent  and  unswerving  deter- 
mination: not  to  marry  O'Donnell. 

Miss  Whitcom  sighed  briefly  and  went  on  hooking 
herself  up. 

"Speaking    of    swimming,"    she    continued.     "I 


THE   ARRIVAL  67 

won  a  gold  medal  once.  Yep.  A  very  long  time 
ago." 

"A  medal  for  swimming,  Aunt  Marjie?" 

The  aunt  nodded.  "I  entered  a  five-mile  en- 
durance and  time.  Entered  against  thirteen  men, 
and  got  there  first!" 

"Oh,  how  wonderful!"  cried  Hilda  admiringly. 

"Yes,  it  was  wonderful,"  the  other  admitted;  then 
frowned.  "The  only  trouble  was  that  I  had  my  sub- 
sequent doubts  of  its  being  really  fair." 

Mrs.  Needham,  who  had  been  standing  in  the  door- 
way, a  faint  and  musing  smile  on  her  lips,  received 
the  news  of  the  swimming  match  with  a  hurried  com- 
ment about  having  to  go  down  and  see  how  Eliza  was 
getting  on  with  breakfast.  She  was  always,  and 
especially  with  Alfred  in  mind,  mildly  shocked  at 
the  glib  way  in  which  her  sister  talked  about 
men. 

"How  do  you  mean  it  wasn't  fair,  Aunt  Marjie?" 
demanded  little  Hilda,  sitting  down  eagerly  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed. 

"Came  to  suspect  one  of  them." 

"One  of  the  men?" 

"UmJim." 

"Of  cheating,  Aunt  Marjie?" 

"Um.     Turning  lazy  at  the  finish." 

"You  mean  he  let  you  win?" 

"Afraid  so,  Hilda." 

"But  I've  heard  papa  say  that  women  ought  to 
be  treated.  ." 


68  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"That  men  ought  to  go  lazy  at  the  finish  and  let 
you  pull  in  ahead?" 

"Of  course  papa  never  put  it  that  way.  I  don't 
believe  he  knows  about  women  going  into  regular 
contests  like  that,  with  men." 

"I  daresay  not,  Hilda.  Such  things  wouldn't  con- 
spicuously have  entered  into  Alfred's  training." 

"What  did  you  do  when  you  found  out  about  it, 
Aunt  Marjie?" 

"What  do  you  mean — when  I'd  convinced  myself 
he  hadn't  played  fair?" 

"Yes." 

"Sent  him  the  medal."     She  ishrugged. 

"You  didr 

"Um.  It  belonged  to  him,  not  me.  Yes,  sir — it 
went  right  straight  off  to  him,  with  a  polite  note. 
The  note  was  terribly  polite.  I  told  him  I  hoped 
he'd  get  just  lots  of  comfort  out  of  it.  Real,  solid 
comfort."  And  she  snorted  with  wrath. 

"Then  what  did  he  say,  Aunt  Marjie?" 

"Then  he  said — say,  look  here,  Hilda,  what  is 
your  capacity  for  asking  questions?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,  Aunt  Marjie!  I  didn't  realize 
how  many  I  was  asking." 

And  she  really  was  sorry.  Nevertheless,  her  eyes 
continued  to  shine  very  brightly.  Aunt  Marjie  had 
a  stimulating  effect  on  Hilda — Hilda  being  just  at 
the  age  of  hero-worship.  This  age,  in  the  life  of 
the  individual,  is  somewhat  akin  to  the  prehistoric 
age  in  human  history;  it  bristles  with  ever  such 


THE   ARRIVAL  69 

fabulous  things.  And  the  only  natural  thing  to  do 
when  one  encounters  fabulous  things  is  to  ask  as 
many  questions  about  them  as  one  can  think  of. 

But  Marjory  Whitcom  hadn't,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
spoken  with  any  dominant  impatience.  She  had 
asked  Hilda's  capacity  for  questions  in  a  spirit  of 
ridicule  which,  in  a  conscious  sense  of  boomerang 
satire,  amply  included  her  own  loquacious  self. 
And  yet,  for  all  that,  there  was  a  slight  flush  on  her 
face.  What  brought  the  flush  there?  Ah,  there  are 
deep  things  in  the  human  heart.  The  flush  lasted 
quite  a  long  time.  Indeed,  it  had  hardly  faded 
out  altogether  when  she  was  seated  with  the  family 
at  breakfast. 

The  Rev.  Needham  asked  the  blessing  in  a 
faintly  grim  manner.  He  spoke  it  off  with  a  de- 
fiant assurance.  His  sister-in-law,  he  had  just  been 
deciding,  wasnt  to  intimidate  him  at  his  own  table. 
He  kept  his  eyes  tight  shut  and  spoke  on  almost 
doggedly.  There  were  a  number  of  graces  in  the 
minister's  repertory.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  using 
now  one,  now  another.  This  morning,  though  the 
choice  was,  of  course,  as  always,  entirely  spontane- 
ous and  unconscious,  he  chose  the  shortest  of  them 
all. 

Breakfast  was  simple  and  bountiful.  The  Need- 
hams  were  rather  hearty  eaters.  There  was  no  stom- 
ach trouble  in  the  family,  although  very  strong  emo- 
tions had,  naturally,  the  same  effect  on  them  as  on 
most  people.  Following  Louise's  affair  with  Rich- 


70  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

ard,  as  they  remembered  it,  the  unhappy  girl  had 
eaten  almost  nothing  for  months — or  it  certainly 
was  weeks — and  had  grown  extremely  thin.  In  fact, 
during  the  first  week  following  the  sad  climax  none 
of  the  Needhams  had  eaten  quite  normally,  except 
little  Hilda.  She,  only  a  child  of  twelve  then,  came 
up  regularly  enough  for  second  helpings,  despite 
her  sister's  trouble  and  the  general  depression  of  the 
household.  Childhood  is,  when  not  perverted,  a 
blessed  span,  the  heart  seeming  to  stand  entirely  out 
of  touch  with  any  of  the  homelier  and  more  pro- 
saic organs. 

This  morning  there  were  wild  raspberries — early 
ones,  and  not  very  large — which  the  Rev.  Needham 
and  his  younger  daughter  had  themselves  gathered  in 
the  woods  and  along  the  sunny  roadways  the  after- 
noon previous,  while  Marjory  was  conversing  sen- 
sibly with  her  sister.  After  the  fruit  came  a  cooked 
cereal,  which  Mrs.  Needham  was  annoyed  to  find  a 
trifle  lumpy.  And  then  after  that  there  followed  pan- 
cakes— pancakes,  pancakes — hundreds,  it  seemed, 
coming  in  three  at  a  time,  which  was  the  griddle's 
limit. 

Just  subsequent  to  the  blessing,  Aunt  Marjie  oc- 
casioned a  very  slight  flurry  in  the  domestic  arrange- 
ments by  asking  Anna  if  she  might  have  a  glass  of 
hot  water. 

"I'm  supposed  to  drink  it  now,"  she  explained, 
"before  each  meal.  It's  living  so  long  in  the  tropics, 
I  suppose." 


THE   ARRIVAL  71 

Mrs.  Needham  tinkled  the  bell  for  Eliza,  and 
glanced,  half  unconsciously,  at  her  husband.  The 
Rev.  Needham,  it  is  to  be  feared,  was  growing  rather 
opinionated  about  his  wife's  sister.  There  is,  when 
one  stops  to  view  the  matter  wholly  without  passion, 
nothing  really  criminal  in  the  request  for  a  glass  of 
hot  water,  just  as  there  is  nothing  essentially  feloni- 
ous about  using  all  the  water  you  want  up  in  your 
room.  Of  course,  in  such  places  as  deserts  it  may 
often  be  essential  to  employ  circumspection;  but 
scarcely  on  Point  Betsey,  where  there  lay  the  vast 
resources  of  Lake  Michigan  behind  even  an  extrava- 
gant indulgence.  And  as  for  having  the  water  hot, 
well,  what  are  kettles  for?  One  poises  the  issue. 
Still,  of  course,  such  implications  as  these  are  hardly 
fair  to  the  Rev.  Needham,  who  was  animated  by  no 
real  spirit  of  parsimoniousness  at  all,  but  who 
merely  disliked  seeing  vaguely  devastated  the  quiet, 
orderly  routine  of  the  house.  To  tell  the  truth, 
while  he  didn't  honestly  grudge  her  the  water,  the 
clergyman  looked  upon  his  sister-in-law  as  something 
of  an  intruder.  However  legitimate  it  might  be — 
and  of  course  nobody  could  possibly  deny  that  Mar- 
jory had  a  perfect  right  to  be  here  in  their  midst — in- 
trusion still  was  intrusion.  The  trouble  was,  he  dis- 
trusted— all  but  feared  her.  And  when  men  fear 
others,  they  will  often  be  found  taking  exception  to 
minor  failings,  real  or  fancied,  which  a  sometimes 
surprisingly  acute  vigilance  discovers  in  those  who 
inspire  their  fear.  The  Rev.  Needham,  however, 


72  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

said  nothing:  merely  pressed  his  lips  together,  as  he 
had  previously  done  before  the  mirror  upstairs  when 
informed  that  his  relative  would  have  to  have  her 
pitcher  refilled  every  morning.  It  was  these  repres- 
sions which  permitted  the  world  at  large  no  too  sali- 
ent suspicion  of  what  was  really  going  on  inside. 

A  pleasant,  wholly  unremarkable  conversation  was 
kept  up.  It  wasn't  the  sort  of  talk  to  invite  pre- 
servation, but  was,  on  the  contrary,  just  a  normal  and 
uneventful  flow.  True,  there  seemed  an  unwonted 
excitement  in  the  air.  The  day  upon  which  Mr. 
Barry  was  to  arrive  must  necessarily  be  considered  a 
red-letter  day,  and  might  even  be  expected,  in  a 
sense,  to  deliver  up  talk  of  some  special  brilliance. 
But  to  tell  the  truth,  the  great  event  had  already 
been  discussed  in  all  its  possible  phases  and  from  all 
conceivable  angles,  there  remaining  at  length  abso- 
lutely nothing  but  for  Mr.  Barry  to  put  in  an  appear- 
ance. 

Throughout  breakfast  the  Rev.  Needham  main- 
tained as  consistent  an  attitude  of  dignified  prosper- 
ity, beneficence,  common  sense,  and  scrupulouly  in- 
formal godliness  as  possible.  Above  all,  he  tried  in 
his  demeanour  to  emphasize  an  unobtrusive  yet  firm 
head-of-the-house  bearing — and  indeed  succeeded, 
for  the  most  part,  so  well  as  almost  to  persuade  him- 
self that  he  was  master  of  his  destiny,  after  all; 
that  his  life  was  growing  more  solid,  more  depend- 
able now. 

Hilda,  of  course,  chattered  a  great  deal,  after  her 


THE   ARRIVAL  73 

wont,  acquainting  her  hearers,  for  one  thing,  with  as 
full  an  account  of  Louise's  early  departure  as 
seemed  politic.  She  blushed,  mentioning  Leslie. 
Miss  Whitcom  noted  that:  noted  it  and  sighed.  It 
was  obvious  the  blush  was  no  accident.  Another 
young  thing,  just  starting  out;  the  rough  and  not  al- 
ways so  romantic  world  ahead  of  her — and  boy- 
crazy!  Marjory  Whitcom  sighed  again.  So  futile, 
she  told  herself.  But  another  valuation  just  slipped 
in:  so  sweet! 

Toward  the  end  of  the  meal,  the  pancake  process, 
hitherto  quite  smooth  and  regular,  hitched  very 
badly.  No  fresh  cakes  came  in,  and  the  supply  on 
the  table  dwindled  alarmingly.  The  Rev.  Needham 
affected  not  to  notice  this.  The  management  of  the 
household,  thank  heaven!  was  not  on  his  shoulders. 
His  burdens  were  the  weightier  and  more  important 
family  matters — aside,  that  is,  from  the  business  of 
tending  to  his  own  rather  unmanageable  soul  and 
looking  after  his  flock.  There  was  a  great  difference 
between  household  matters  and  family  matters;  pan- 
cakes were  not  in  his  department;  so  that,  not  being 
himself  responsible  for  the  present  embarrassment, 
he  could  afford  to  keep  up  a  very  good  and  cheer- 
ful front  indeed,  even  when  his  eyes  assured  him  the 
kitchen  door  hadn't  opened  for  fully  five  minutes. 

Mrs.  Needham  flushed.  She  always  grew  more  or 
less  excited  when  there  was  a  break  like  this  in  the 
table  service.  As  concerned  her  own  plate,  she,  of 
course,  stopped  eating,  directly  it  began  to  look  as 


74  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

though  the  supply  of  cakes  on  the  table  could  not 
possibly  survive  till  there  was  a  reinforcement  from 
the  griddle.  She  nibbled  heroically  at  the  cake  al- 
ready unavoidably  on  her  plate,  and  suddenly  began 
talking  with  great  animation. 

Anna  had  always  felt,  obscurely  yet  unhappily, 
that  her  sister  did  not  consider  her  a  really  ex- 
pert housekeeper.  In  the  old  days,  before  weddings 
and  deaths  had  disintegrated  the  family,  it  had  al- 
ways been  Marjory  who  could  do  things  best  and 
most  handily.  She  had  seemed  a  very  prize  of 
domestic  efficiency.  Every  one  said  Marjory  would 
be  married  off  first.  There  were  even  unkind  asides 
to  the  effect  that  Anna  would  probably  linger  on  and 
perhaps  eventually  run  into  perpetual  maidenhood. 
Ah,  the  queer  pranks  of  life!  Anna  had  been  car- 
ried off  first,  after  all;  and  Marjory,  the  acknowl- 
edged flower,  had  gone  all  these  years  unplucked. 

Anna  Needham  was  always  anxious  to  make  a 
good  household  impression  on  her  sister.  Of  course, 
many  sorts  of  allowances  would  be  made  up  here  at 
the  Point.  Still,  there  seemed  no  valid  reason  why 
the  cakes  should  cease  coming  in.  At  last  she 
tinkled  her  bell.  She  tinkled  it  resolutely.  Her 
husband  had  just  helped  Miss  Whitcom  to  the 
last  cake.  Hilda  still  had  unmistakably  a  hungry 
look. 

Eliza  opened  the  kitchen  door  and  thrust  in  her 
head. 

"Did  you  ring,  ma'am?" 


THE   ARRIVAL  75 

"Yes,  Eliza,  I  did.  We  would  like  some  more 
cakes." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

Eliza  withdrew  her  head  and  closed  the  door.  But 
while  it  yet  remained  within  their  view,  the  face  of 
Eliza  had  something  dark  and  ominous  in  it. 

They  heard  her  making  desperate  sounds  about 
the  stove.  One  minute,  two.  Mrs.  Needham  grew 
more  and  more  excited.  She  talked  loudly  and 
steadily.  The  Rev.  Needham  sat  with  his  hands  on 
the  arms  of  his  chair,  like  a  statue  of  patience.  Pres- 
ently, however,  he  began  to  drum  with  his  fingers. 
Miss  Whitcom,  realizing  the  dilemma  adjusted  her- 
self to  it — made  the  last  ^ake  go  a  wonderfully  long 
way. 

Finally  Mrs.  Needham  pushed  back  her  chair,  ex- 
cused herself  hurriedly,  and  went  out  into  the  kitchen, 
the  retreat  being  valiantly  covered  by  her  sister,  who 
began  telling  her  brother-in-law  fresh  tribal  char- 
acteristics of  the  people  of  Tahulamaji. 

Out  in  the  smudge  of  the  kitchen  Anna  Needham 
faced  her  cook. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Eliza?" 

Eliza  was  hot  and  hopeless.  She  pointed  to  the 
griddle  upon  which  were  three  cakes,  still  quite  pasty, 
and  which  had  obviously  ceased  baking. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  stove,  Eliza?" 

"It  must  be  the  oil  is  all  gone,  ma'am." 

"But  I  thought  there  was  plenty  to  last  until  the 
morning  delivery  from  the  store." 


76  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Well,  ma'am,  when  I  came  down  I  found  two 
burners  going,  and  there  was  the  remains  of  break- 
fast on  the  table.  Did  Louise  go  away  somewhere 
early?" 

Eliza  called  the  Needham  girls  quite  simply  by 
their  first  names.  She  might  have  honoured  them  by 
saying  Miss  Louise  and  Miss  Hilda.  But  she  hadn't 
begun  that  way.  She  hadn't  done  that  at  her  last 
place,  nor  at  any  of  the  other  places  which  constituted 
her  Middle  Western  retrospect  as  a  domestic;  and 
Anna,  in  such  comparatively  unimportant  matters 
as  this,  found  it  less  frictional  to  let  instruction 
slide. 

Louise  had  flown,  leaving  the  burners  on;  there 
would  be  no  more  pancakes  for  the  remaining  Need- 
hams  and  their  guest. 

The  Rev.  Needham  sighed,  and  somehow  felt  that 
the  day  was  not  beginning  so  very  well.  However, 
Marjory  began  laughing  in  a  singularly  hearty 
way. 

"It  reminds  me,"  she  grinned,  "of  something  in 
an  old  melodrama  I  saw  years  and  years  ago  at  an 
impossible  little  theatre.  The  'comic  relief  was  a 
tramp,  whose  weakness  was  the  flask.  He  pretended, 
as  I  recall  it,  to  have  palpitations  of  the  heart,  or 
something  like  that,  and  at  one  stage  of  the  pro- 
ceedings went  into  a  series  of  alarming  spasms,  each 
of  which  would  be  instantly  allayed  by  a  swig  from  a 
flask  belonging  to  one  of  the  other  characters.  The 


THE   ARRIVAL  77 

other  character  dared  not  refuse  the  flask,  for  fear 
of  fatal  consequences,  but  eyed  its  diminishing  con- 
tents with  profound  regret.  How  well  do  I  remem- 
ber! At  length  the  tramp,  in  one  of  his  worst  spasms, 
was  informed  that  the  whiskey  was  all  gone;  where- 
upon he  very  decently  revived,  looked  out  at  the 
audience  soberly,  and  said,  in  his  most  mirth-provok- 
ing tones:  'Thank  heavens  there  was  just  enough!' ' 

The  Rev.  Needham,  as  they  left  the  table,  looked 
at  her  in  a  half  startled  way.  These  stories  of  hers 
were  never  in  actually  questionable  taste,  yet  they, 
somehow  contrived  to  upset  him.  There  seemed  to 
be  always  something  just  behind  them  which  might, 
as  it  were,  spring  out.  It  was  such  he  seemed  to  fear 
most  of  all:  the  things  in  life  that  might  spring  out. 

"Hilda,"  said  Aunt  Marjie,  still  chuckling  over 
the  whole  affair,  "did  you  tell  me  Louise  had  a  young 
man  in  the  kitchen  with  her?" 

"Yes,  it  was  Leslie.     But  Aunt  Marjie.  .  .  .  !" 

"Ah,  then  that  explains  it!" 

"Oh,  but  Aunt  Marjie,  Leslie  isn't  the  one.  You 
see,  Louise  is  engaged!" 

"She  is?"  demanded  the  lady  more  seriously,  yet 
mockingly,  too,  as  though  the  communication  repre- 
sented fresh  news.  "Well,  then" — for  Miss  Whit- 
com  refused  to  be  daunted — "the  empty  burners 
are  no  doubt  all  the  better  accounted  for,  Hilda." 
She  laughed  again.  Then  she  put  her  hands  on 
Hilda's  young  shoulders.  "Hilda,"  she  said  with 


78  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

great  solemnity,  "are  you  quite  sure  Leslie  isn't  the 
one?" 

Hilda  blushed,  and  did  not  look  squarely  at  her 
aunt,  but  instead  a  little  bit  beyond  her. 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  cried  softly. 


THE  first  sunlit  hours  of  the  day  fully  realized 
the  brave  promise  of  the  dawn.  The  air 
was  fresh  and  delicious,  though  inclined  to 
sultriness  as  one  travelled  inland  away  from  the 
coast.  The  song  of  the  locust  was  shrill  in  the  trees. 
Louise's  way  took  her  a  good  distance  from  sea 
and  then  brought  her  back  to  it  again,  circumlocu- 
tionary  travel  being  one  of  the  features  of  Point 
Betsey  existence.  It  might  fantastically  resolve  it- 
self into  a  paradox:  to  go  an  inch  you  must  go  a  mile. 
Her  destination  was  the  town  of  Frankfort,  situated 
about  four  miles  south  of  the  great  stone  light-house 
and  the  cottages  on  the  Point.  The  distance  could 
easily  be  covered  on  foot,  the  pedestrian  taking  his 
way  along  the  smooth  curving  beach  of  the  "Big 
Lake."  But  Louise  was  rather  a  poor  walker.  She 
preferred  to  lie  in  a  hammock,  or,  if  ground  must  be 
covered,  to  depend  as  largely  as  possible  upon 
artificial  locomotion.  Those  who  declined  to  walk 
and  had  no  motor,  must,  to  reach  Frankfort,  enlist 
the  respective  conveyance  of  boat  and  train — an  al- 
most complicated  journey.  There  was  a  regular  pas- 
senger ferry  running  on  Crystal  Lake,  back  and  forth 

between  the  resorts  on  the  west  shore  and  the  village 

79 


80  THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

of  Beulah.  This  ferry  boat,  propelled  by  gasoline, 
was  called  the  Pathfinder — a  name  always  preparing 
passengers  new  to  the  route  for  unimagined  nautical 
adventure.  Passengers  seemed  cheerfully  and  non- 
chalantly asked  quite  to  take  their  lives  in  their 
hands,  or  rather,  which  might  be  even  worse,  to 
sign  them  over  entirely  into  the  precarious  keeping 
of  the  boat's  owner-pilot-engineer-and-fare-collector. 
And  yet,  after  all,  there  was  nothing  so  very  terrify- 
ing about  a  trip  from  one  end  of  Crystal  Lake  to  the 
other.  On  the  Pathfinder  Louise  would  doubtless 
have  travelled  this  morning  but  for  the  fact  that  the 
official  ferry  service  was  never  to  be  depended  upon 
at  so  early  an  hour.  Absence  of  competition  had 
led  to  a  really  deplorable  state  of  independence,  so 
that  Leslie's  little  boat  was  indeed  a  blessing  at  such 
times,  in  spite  of  its  general  decrepitude.  He  es- 
corted her,  as  we  have  seen,  the  first  nine  miles  of 
her  journey,  due  east,  away  from  Lake  Michigan. 
Then  the  train  carried  her  nine  miles  back  again, 
though  somewhere  in  the  proceeding  the  four  miles 
separating  Frankfort  and  Point  Betsey  were  annihil- 
ated. The  journey  consumed  something  like  an  hour 
and  a  half. 

Louise  stepped  out  of  the  dilapidated  coach.  The 
station  stood  within  a  few  rods  of  the  seashore — a 
situation  once  accommodating  the  convenience  of 
an  enormous  summer  hotel,  which  a  few  years 
previous  had  taken  fire  and  vanished  in  smoke. 
With  it  had  vanished  also  the  fondest  hopes  of  the 


THE   ARRIVAL  81 

town.  However,  the  ornate  railroad  terminus  still 
stood  just  where  it  had  stood  during  the  days  of 
glory.  Thank  God  it  was  spared,  for  it  had  about 
it  a  relative  magnificence  which  the  impoverished 
hamlet  could  ill  afford  to  lose.  It  might,  of  course, 
be  more  centrally  located;  still,  there  was  a  kind  of 
grace  in  its  sad  vigil. 

Miss  Needham,  with  considerable  time  to  waste, 
surveyed  the  age-softened  ruins  of  the  vast  hotel  and 
quite  cheerfully  revived,  for  her  amusement,  mem- 
ories of  the  time  when  she  was  Hilda's  age  and  used 
to  come  here  to  dancing  parties  and  occasional  din- 
ners with  her  family.  She  paced  up  and  down 
upon  what  had  once  been  the  walk  leading  grandly  to 
the  hotel  from  the  wharves  and  the  railroad  station. 
Now  the  way  was  rank  with  grass  and  weeds. 

Ah,  yes.  She  had  promenaded  here  in  that  long- 
ago  time,  nor  had  she  walked  alone,  as  she  was  walk- 
ing now.  Oh,  no.  And  a  slight  flush,  even  after  all 
these  years,  crept  into  her  face  as  she  remembered 
Harold  Gates.  Yes,  he  had  walked  beside  her  here, 
and  they  had  talked  together  of  many  things,  and 
laughed  a  great  deal.  How  she  had  laughed  in  the 
old  days!  How  gay  they  were!  And  over  there  on 
the  channel  pier,  close  to  the  bowling  alley,  she  had 
let  Harold  kiss  her,  also.  Before  the  summer  was 
over  she  had  let  him  kiss  her  rather  a  good  many 
times.  Of  course  they  did  not  really  love  each  other. 
They  were  only  just  awfully  good  friends.  Harold 
was  residing  in  the  hotel  with  his  parents.  Louise 


82  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

only  saw  him  when  the  Rev.  Needham  decided  they 
would  go  in  to  town  and  dine.  Harold  kept  promis- 
ing that  he  would  come  out  to  the  Point  some  day  and 
see  her,  but  he  never  came.  Oh,  yes — how  memories 
swarm  back,  once  the  tide  of  their  return  has  set  in! 
Yes,  once  he  did  come ;  but  it  was  only  as  a  member  of 
a  picnic  party  from  the  hotel.  They  brought  baskets 
with  them  and  had  a  fine  revel  on  the  beach,  quite 
near  the  Needham  cottage.  In  the  evening  they  built 
a  fire.  But  Louise  saw  her  hero  only  for  a  moment  on 
that  occasion,  after  all.  They  walked  down  the  dark 
beach  a  little  way,  and  he  put  his  arm  around  her, 
and  she  let  him  kiss  her;  but  when  he  said  he  had 
to  go  back  to  the  fire  again,  there  was  naturally 
nothing  to  do  but  let  him  go.  The  trouble  was,  he 
seemed  to  have  a  special  girl  in  the  picnic  party  on 
whom  his  attentions  must  be  lavished.  So  young, 
yet  already  such  a  dashing  man  of  the  world!  But 
for  Louise  it  wasn't  very  satisfying. 

"What  a  fool  I  was!"  she  cried  to  herself,  almost 
angrily,  even  at  this  comfortable  distance.  And  then 
she  laughed:  "What  a  silly  little  fool!" 

Harold  Gates  was  all  nicely  married  and  settled 
down  now;  a  Chicago  girl,  and  they  had  a  baby. 
Harold  had  mailed  her  a  postcard  with  the  baby's 
picture  on  it,  and  across  the  bottom  of  the  picture  he 
had  written,  in  hig  firm  business  hand:  "Merry 
Christmas  from  the  three  Gates."  Was  it  not 
strongly  to  be  doubted  whether  Harold  at  length  even 
remembered  how  lover-like  they  had  been  that  sum- 


THE   ARRIVAL  83 

mer,  he  and  she?  Well,  it  was  rather  to  be  hoped  he 
didn't  remember;  and  yet,  with  a  queer  little  pang 
for  just  a  moment,  Louise  thought  she  couldn't  en- 
dure his  having  entirely  forgotten.  .  .  . 

Well,  she  had  certainly  been  free  enough  with  her 
affections  in  those  days!  Yes,  she  had  been  very 
free.  As  Louise  quitted  the  ruins  (which  had  an 
odd,  symbolic  aspect  this  morning)  and  wandered 
off  along  the  beach,  snatches  of  the  prodigality  of 
her  past  flared  up,  distressing  her,  thrilling  her  a 
little,  filling  her  heart  with  gloomy  though  not  exactly 
acute  aversion.  Ah,  she  thought,  the  kisses  that  had 
been  spent  in  vain!  And  yet  they  had  not  seemed 
entirely  in  vain  at  the  time — not  all  of  them,  at  any 
rate. 

From  a  glancing  inventory  of  those  more  trifling 
indulgences  of  her  early  days,  she  soared  to  the  vastly 
more  vital  affair  with  Richard.  That,  indeed,  was 
different.  Yes,  that  was  another  matter  altogether. 
Richard  was  her  first  real  lover.  The  others  were 
mere  boy-sweet-hearts,  or  they  were,  like  Harold 
Gates,  just  awfully  good  friends.  Richard  had  al- 
ways seemed  mature  to  her:  a  man.  She  had  always 
felt  herself  a  woman  in  his  presence.  Their  affair, 
wretchedly  as  it  had  turned  out,  was  undeniably 
animated  by  the  love  that  flashes  between  men  and 
women.  It  had  a  new  tenseness,  a  new  dizziness,  a 
new  depth.  It  was  magnificent  and  gripping;  had 
the  true  ring  of  authority  and  surrender  in  it.  Yes, 
it  was  a  thing  of  intense  intoxication,  and  maintained, 


84  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

so  far,  at  least,  as  she  was  concerned,  an  unfaltering 
white  heat. 

"And  yet — for  him,"  she  told  herself  as  she 
walked  close  beside  the  little  waves,  "it  wasn't  like 
that.  No,  it  couldn't  have  been,  even — even  during 
those  wonderful  times,  when  we.  .  .  ."  And  she 
flushed,  as  though  not  even  solitude  were  an  utterly 
dependable  guardian  of  her  crimson  thoughts.  She 
lowered  her  eyes,  lest  impartial  nature  suddenly  be 
caught  up  into  an  impersonation  which  should  cry 
shame  against  her. 

Oh,  yes.  She  had  given  her  whole  heart  to  Rich- 
ard. Almost,  almost.  .  .  .  She  shuddered.  "What 
a  terrible  thing  it  is!"  she  told  herself.  "What 
a  terrible  thing,  being  deceived  in  a  man!  But 
how  is  one  to  know?  How  can  one  always  tell?" 

Ah,  how  indeed?  She  went  on  a  little  way,  think- 
ing darkly  and  arriving  nowhere. 

"And  yet,"  she  wavered,  a  look  of  intenser  and 
clearer  pain  drifting  into  her  eyes>,  "he  was — so 
dear!  Ah.  .  .  ." 

If  Richard  were  suddenly  to  come  toward  her  out 
of  the  past;  if  he  were  to  come  toward  her  here, 
along  this  brown  beach;  if  he  should  hold  out  his 
arms  to  her  and  bid  her  to  come  back.  .  .  .  No,  no! 
She  clasped  her  hands,  for  it  was  all  so  real. 
"No,  no,"  she  whispered.  "I  would  not  go 
back.  I  would  not  dare  go  back."  She  had 
seen  him  coming  toward  her  many  times  in 
fancy,  stretching  out  hig  arms  to  her,  speaking  to 


THE  ARRIVAL  85 

her  after  his  wont.  And  she  had  learned  to 
play  out  her  prohibiting  side  of  the  terrible  ordeal 
so  faithfully,  so  often,  that  at  length  the  only  emotion 
she  felt  was  that  sense  of  dullness  that  goes  with  things 
which  are  irrevocable. 

"No,  Richard,"  she  would  say.  "I  gave  myself  to 
you  once.  You  might  have  had  me  then.  But  not 
now.  It  is  too  late." 

She  would  dismiss  him,  calmly  and  sorrowfully; 
would  permit  her  tongue  to  utter  no  words  other 
than  these.  And  yet.  .  .  .  She  walked  slowly 
along,  pondering  her  life. 

What  changes  had  come  with  the  years!  What 
changes!  Now  her  heart  was  given  to  another  man. 
This  was  another  sort  of  love,  another  sort  altogether. 
Lynndal  and  Richard  were  so  unlike!  Louise  won- 
dered whether  the  love  of  any  two  men  could  be  so 
strikingly  unlike  as  she  saw  the  love  of  Richard  and 
of  Lynndal  to  be.  Indeed,  it  rather  pleased  her,  as 
she  set  them  off,  one  against  the  other,  that  the 
distinction  should  be  so  great.  It  seemed  to  argue  an 
indeterminate  yet  quite  thrilling  variety  in  herself 
— not  of  course,  a  mere  vulgar  facility  in  shifting 
or  adapting  herself  to  types  as  chance  flitted  them 
across  her  horizon — ah,  no! — but  a  real  sense  of 
understanding,  a  genius  for  grasping  the  salient 
elements  in  many  men,  a  cleverness  in  appraising 
their  worth.  She  bolstered  her  troubled  and  ghost- 
ridden  heart. 

Lynndal  was  the  opposite  of  Richard,  in  every  way 


86  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

— in  every  way,  that  is,  except  that  he>  too,  loved 
her.  No,  she  would  say  in  every  way,  for  she  knew 
now  that  Richard  had  never  really  cared,  while 
Lynndal,  that  was  certain,  cared  very  deeply  and 
enduringly. 

Her  heart  quickened  now  as  she  thought  of  her 
lover.  She  began  reviving,  in  a  happy,  drifting  way, 
the  slender  accumulation  of  noteworthy  items  in  their 
romance,  hers  and  Lynndal's:  thought  of  their  first 
meeting,  in  the  lobby  of  the  hotel  in  Arizona,  when 
she  was  with  her  father  on  one  of  his  infrequent 
"business"  trips.  The  Rev.  Needham  owned  a  little 
property  in  the  great  dry-farming  district  of  Arizona. 
"This  is  my  good  friend  Mr.  Barry,"  her  father  had 
said.  And  she  had  said  she  was  pleased  to  make  his 
acquaintance,  and  she  had  given  him  her  gloved 
hand.  She  had  thought  little  about  him  at  the  time. 
And  that,  perhaps  more  tellingly  than  anything  else, 
argued  the  palpable  differences.  For  Richard  she 
had  loved  at  first  sight.  He  had  captured  her,  madly 
and  hopelessly,  alas,  quite  at  the  outset.  Not  so 
Lynndal.  Oh,  no. 

Louise  was  much  given  to  musing  and  contempla- 
tion of  this  sort,  which  often  took,  as  now,  an  odd 
conversational  expression. 

"I  didn't  love  Lynndal  at  all,  in  the  first  place," 
she  told  herself,  as  though  this  were  the  first  really 
definite  understanding  of  the  case.  "I  didn't  begin 
to  care  until  the  week  was  half  over.  But  I  saw  he 


THE   ARRIVAL  87 

cared.  I  knew  that  I  attracted  him  from  the  begin- 
ning." 

And  then  she  left  the  beach  and  strolled  up  into  the 
village. 

Three  couples  passed  by,  arm  in  arm,  youth  and 
maiden,  going  for  a  promenade  on  the  pier.  They 
deported  themselves  in  just  the  customary  Middle 
Western  summer  resort  manner.  The  couple  ahead 
would  confer  in  whispers.  Then  a  simultaneous 
laugh  would  disturb  the  lazy  stillness  of  the  street. 
And  then  it  might  be  that  the  girl  would  turn  as  she 
walked  and  whisper  something  in  the  ear  of  the  girl 
behind  her,  who  would  laugh  out  also,  at  whatever 
it  was  the  young  man  ahead  had  originally  confided 
to  his  partner.  And  the  companion  of  this  second 
young  lady  would  look  bored  and  very  much  left 
out,  while  perhaps  the  young  man  behind  him  might 
mockingly  exclaim  that  secrets  in  company  weren't 
polite.  Then  the  next  minute  all  six  would  be  sing- 
ing the  chorus  of  some  contemporary  rag.  And 
when  that  was  done  there  would  be  another  chorus. 
Or  else  the  young  lady  ahead  would  shout  back  to 
the  young  lady  in  the  rear  and  demand  of  her  in 
tones  of  such  vehemence  that  they  could  be  shared 
by  all  the  town,  whether  she'd  heard  from  John  yet — 
or  Harry  or  Jim  or  Robert,  as  the  case  might  be. 
Whereupon  the  young  man  in  the  middle,  who  had 
been  mocked  by  the  young  man  in  the  rear,  would 
very  likely  turn  and  grin,  feeling,  if  rather  obscurely, 


88  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

that  the  frivolous  odds  of  the  hour  were  now  more 
evenly  distributed. 

Louise  glanced  at  these  careless,  gay  young  per- 
sons as  they  passed,  and  a  feeling  of  comfortable 
security  crept  into  her  heart. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I'm  past  all  that!"  she  thought 
with  a  sigh.  "They  all  act  this  way  at  one  time  or 
another,  and  it's  certainly  a  blessing  when  it's  over!" 

She  turned  and  looked  after  the  noisy  spooners 
as  they  bent  their  steps  toward  the  pier.  Suddenly, 
it  seemed  for  no  reason  at  all,  she  thought  of  Leslie. 
He  seemed,  quite  vividly,  to  be  right  here  beside  her 
for  a  moment.  It  was  ever  so  curious.  She  won- 
dered why  she  should  think  of  him  so  vividly  just 
at  this  moment.  Presently  it  occurred  to  her  the 
reason  was  simply  that  Leslie,  though  so  young, 
wasn't  boisterous  and  silly,  like  the  hoodlums  she  had 
just  passed.  No,  she  could  not  fancy  his  ever  hav- 
ing behaved  like  that  in  his  life.  Nor  could  she  con- 
ceive of  his  having  yet  to  go  through  any  such  gauche, 
vapid  period.  With  her  he  had  always  been  very 
serious.  Of  course,  she  was  a  little  older.  But 
Leslie's  whole  nature  was  serious,  she  argued,  and 
somehow — somehow  deep.  She  was  in  the  mood 
now,  perversely,  to  do  him  the  most  elaborate  jus- 
tice. Yes,  she  thought  he  might  be  called,  in  a  way, 
really  deep.  Certainly  she  had  never  known  any 
one  like  him.  She  did  not,  just  then,  consider  that 
she  had  never  known  any  one  just  like  Richard,  either, 
wh,en  it  came  to  that — or  even  any  one  like  Harold 


THE   ARRIVAL  89 

Gates.  All  she  could  seem  to  think  of,  for  the  mo- 
ment, was  that  Leslie  had  come  to  fill  a  unique  place 
in  her  life. 

A  feeling  of  tenderness  crept  upon  her.  Yes, 
they  had  grown  intimate  during  the  short  span  of 
their  acquaintance.  She  had  been  rather  lavish.  It 
was  Leslie's  first  summer  on  the  Point.  Vaguely 
she  wished  it  might  all  have  been  otherwise,  that  he 
might  have  come  into  her  life  sooner,  or  that.  .  .  . 
Ah,  what  was  it  she  wanted? 

His  voice  seemed  suddenly  ringing  in  her  ears, 
as  it  had  rung  when  he  cried:  "Friends!" 

And  she  sighed. 

Oh,  Eros,  wicked  god!  She  is  waiting  for  one 
lover,  and  you  torment  her  with  others!  You  re- 
vive for  her  sweet,  irrevocable  loves  of  the  past, 
when  one  would  think  the  present  love  enough.  .  .  . 


LOUISE  looked  at  her  watch.     It  was  half 
past  seven.     The  day  was  clear  and  beauti- 
ful.    Out  against  the  marine  horizon  stood  a 
ship.     That  must  be  Lynndal's.     It  would  be  in  at 
eight.     She  decided  she  would  stroll  down  the  length 
of  the  main  street  and  then  return  to  the  wharf. 

Although  the  hour  was  still  so  early,  the  little  town 
displayed  about  as  much  life  as  it  ever  did.  There 
were  women  with  baskets  on  their  arms,  examining 
produce  displayed  in  the  few  shops  where  supplies 
were  procurable.  There  were  carefree  resorters  al- 
ready about,  enjoying  a  freshness  which  must  soon 
evaporate  under  the  scourge  of  the  mounting  sun. 
The  main  street  boasted  a  good  many  quaint  little 
curio  shops,  which  somehow  managed  to  do  a  living 
business.  A  typical  drowsy  Northern  Michigan 
small  town — not  much  of  a  town,  yet  of  course  in- 
finitely better  than  no  town  at  all. 

Louise,  as  she  walked  down  the  one  business  street 
of  the  place,  scarcely  looked  to  right  or  left.  She 
knew  every  nook  and  angle  of  the  town — at  least  so 
she  believed.  Having  come  up  now  so  many  sum- 
mers, wasn't  it  reasonable  to  suppose  that  one  would 
eventually  exhaust  all  the  slender  resources  of  a 

90 


THE   ARRIVAL  91 

place  like  this?  And  yet,  had  her  eyes  been  really 
open  she  would  perhaps  have  been  amazed  to  be- 
hold spread  about  her  a  wealth  of  life  undreamed  of. 
Something  rich  and  new  in  Frankfort?  Yes,  possi- 
bly even  here.  For  those  individuals  in  aprons, 
weighing  out  sugar  and  measuring  potatoes  so  hum- 
bly, are  not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  mere  shop  fixtures, 
as  they  have  always  seemed.  The  clerk  at  the  soda 
fountain,  who  will  cheerfully  dish  up  ice  cream  for 
the  hoodlums  when  they  return  hot  and  famished 
from  their  walk  on  the  pier,  has,  after  all,  other 
interests  in  life  than  syrups  and  fizz — unimportant, 
it  may  be,  yet  interests,  nevertheless.  Yon  fat  and 
shabby  patriarch,  who  sits  so  calmly  all  day  long 
tilted  back  in  a  red  armchair  outside  the  drygoods 
store,  is  something  more,  at  least  potentially,  than  a 
painted  barber's  pole.  Inside  the  drygoods  store, 
although  Miss  Needham  has  overlooked  her,  is  the 
old  man's  grand-daughter,  busily  working,  dreaming. 
She  works  hard  all  summer  so  she  can  go  to  school 
winters  in  Grand  Rapids.  She  has  a  sweetheart  in 
Grand  Rapids,  who  is  taking  a  business  course;  they 
are  planning  to  be  married  sometime  in  the  sweet 
by-and-bye. 

But  one  with  the  enormous  and  stirring  preoc- 
cupations of  Louise  Needham  could  hardly  be  ex- 
pected to  look  on  life  with  open  eyes,  or,  so  to  say, 
analytically.  Appreciations  must  bow  and  conform. 
A  breezy,  impressionistic  sort  of  synthesis  is  the 
background  such  a  mentally  and  emotionally  active 


92  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

person  seems  inevitably  to  evolve.  As  it  was  with 
the  sunrise,  so  was  it  also  with  the  people  of  the 
world  not  personally  bound  up  in  her  destiny.  It 
really  wasn't  a  deliberate  narrowness,  but  simply  a 
sensible  recognition  of  time's  limitations.  Certainly 
the  living  of  one's  own  personal  life  must  always 
count  first. 

Reminiscent  and  dreaming,  she  passed  down  the 
street,  while  out  at  sea  the  steamer  drew  closer  and 
closer.  In  one  gaily  decorated  shop  window  was 
displayed  an  array  of  summer  fiction:  alluring  titles, 
with  often  most  astonishing  jackets — all  the  season's 
best  sellers,  backed  up  by  certain  surviving  relics 
of  bygone  seasons.  There  were  actually  volumes 
in  this  window  (though  now  badly  faded  and  of 
course  occupying  appropriately  inferior  positions) 
which  had  been  the  avowed,  the  lauded  best  sellers 
during  that  summertime,  long  flown,  when  Louise  and 
Harold  Gates  indulged  in  so  free  an  interchange  of 
kisses.  There  had  been,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  rather 
a  profusion  of  kisses  in  the  best  sellers  that  year, 
also:  how  true  they  were,  after  all,  to  life — that  best 
of  all  best  sellers! 

Miss  Needham  paused  before  the  window.  Her 
eyes  were  irresistibly  drawn  to  examine  the  miscel- 
lany, fruitage  of  so  many  seasons,  badges  of  so 
much  smart  selling.  In  the  midst  of  the  conglomer- 
ation she  spied  a  certain  volume,  modest  in  title  and 
hue  as  compared  with  some  of  the  others,  though 
still  extravagant  enough  of  text,  which  Leslie  had 


THE   ARRIVAL  93 

been  telling  her  about.  It  was  a  long  historical 
novel,  and  Leslie  had  expressed  himself  as  well 
pleased  with  it.  He  hadn't,  as  a  matter  of  downright 
fact,  read  the  book  all  through,  but  had  skimmed 
along,  omitting  all  descriptions  and  the  pages  where 
the  author  philosophized  about  life.  But  he  had  cap- 
tured the  gist  of  the  story,  and  had  retold  it  to  Louise 
one  afternoon  while  they  strolled  together  in  delicious 
solitude  through  Lovers'  Lane.  And  she  had  prom- 
ised him  she  would  read  the  book  some  time  and 
give  him  her  opinion — it  going  without  saying  that 
her  opinion,  at  least  to  him,  would  be  of  moment. 
Louise  was  no  great  reader — certainly  not  an  inveter- 
ate reader  of  long  historical  novels.  Nevertheless, 
as  her  eye  now  encountered  it  nestling  there  in  the 
window,  a  sudden  caprice  swept  her  right  inside  the 
shop.  It  was  a  most  amazing  thing,  but  the  next 
moment  she  found  herself  telling  the  clerk  she 
wished  to  purchase  the  volume.  And  then — he 
fished  it  oift. 

The  clerk,  it  must  be  communicated — a  man,  by 
the  way,  with  all  sorts  of  interesting  and  even  en- 
thralling human  complexes  which  Louise  did  not 
dream  of  suspecting,  since  she  knew  the  town  so 
well — was  rather  surprised  that  his  early  morning 
customer  should  desire  this  particular  book  rather 
than  some  of  the  more  gripping  things:  Diane? s 
Secret,  for  instance,  which  was  easily  one  of  the 
most  successful  works  ever  exploited  in  Frankfort. 
However,  since  he  had  long  ago  given  up  all  hope  of 


94  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

ever  selling  the  historical  romance,  and  since  he  ex- 
pected to  run  out  of  Diana  copies  before  the  season 
was  ended,  the  clerk  naturally  offered  no  comment 
upon  her  choice.  Covertly  blowing  a  little  dust  off 
the  book  she  had  asked  for,  he  wrapped  it  up,  and 
handed  it  over  the  counter. 

Louise  was  by  this  time  mildly  self-reproachful. 
"How  silly  of  me  to  walk  right  in  like  that  and  buy 
it!"  she  sighed.  "With  the  money — let's  see.  What 
could  I  have  bought  instead  .  .  .  ?" 

But  however  nimbly  her  mind  might  exert  itself 
in  estimating  the  complete  badness  of  her  bargain, 
the  book  went  under  her  arm.  Just  a  kind  of  giddy, 
final  fling,  she  argued. 

As  she  proceeded  on  her  way,  the  girl  kept  assur- 
ing herself  that  the  embrace  of  the  historic  romance 
was  decidedly  more  playful  than  serious.  It  would 
be  amusing  later  on — oh,  perhaps  a  great  deal  later 
on — to  show  Leslie  she  had  been  as  good  as  her 
word.  Possibly  she  might  actually  read  the  book — 
who  could  tell? — just  to  please  him.  Poor  Les! 
After  all,  he  was  only  a  boy.  She  was  two  years  his 
senior.  It  would  be  foolish  of  them  to  think  of  each 
other,  even  were  her  heart  perfectly  free. 

"Of  course  it's  all  right,"  she  said,  "for  us  to  be 
the  finest  sort  of  friends;  but  it  must  stop  there.  If 
I'd  guessed  how  serious  a  thing  it  was  going  to  turn 
out  for  him  I'd  have  seen  it  wasn't  right  to  let  him 
think  he  had  any  chance.  .  .  ." 


THE   ARRIVAL  95 

This,  to  tell  the  truth,  tended  to  put  it  all  rather 
more  satisfactorily  than  had  hitherto  seemed  pos- 
sible. She  was  quite  pleased,  in  fact,  for  it  left  her 
in  the  attitude  of  repeating  "Poor  Les!" 

Well,  yes,  she  had  thrown  him  over,  she  admitted 
— in  a  certain  sense.  But  only  in  a  sense;  and  any- 
way it  had  to  be  so.  However  shallow  her  reason- 
ing might  often  appear  to  others — however  often  it 
might  fail  of  horizon — Miss  Needham  was  herself 
seldom  conscious  of  the  slightest  insincerity  at  the 
time.  She  had  inherited,  it  is  true,  a  certain  in- 
tellectual shiftiness  from  the  parent  most  afflicted 
with  a  similar  disorder;  but  however  often  she 
might  fluctuate  to  a  new  point  of  view,  so  long  as 
she  actually  held  to  it  the  conception  possessed  for 
her  all  the  earmarks  of  probity  and  permanence. 

"Poor  Les!  No,  no.  ...  I  shouldn't  have  en- 
couraged him  so  much.  .  .  ."  But  she  hadn't 
thought  at  first  that  Lynndal  was  coming.  And 
Arizona  is  very,  very  far  away — especially  on  fine 
summer  nights,  when  one  isn't  wearing  any 
ring.  .  .  . 

Yet  presently  the  book  under  her  arm  began  to 
appear  a  somewhat  awkward  possession.  However 
easy  it  might  be  for  her  to  tell  Leslie  they  must  be 
merely  friends  now,  and  however  blithely  she  might 
ask  him,  after  an  ancient  and  at  best  pretty  hack- 
neyed ideal,  to  look  upon  her  as  a  sister,  it  was  go- 
ing to  be  very  hard — for  him.  Wasn't  it?  Could  it 


96  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

be  otherwise  than  hard  for  him?  Wouldn't  her  hav- 
ing bought  the  book,  even,  especially  if  he  learned 
she  had  bought  it,  make  it  all  still  harder? 

Louise  was  naturally  so  quick  in  her  sympathies 
that  it  troubled  her  when  others  couldn't  attain  as 
convenient  solutions  for  their  problems  as  she  gen- 
erally did  for  her  own.  And  being  herself  party  to 
another's  unhappiness  would,  of  course,  tend  to  add 
certain  pricks  of  conscience  to  any  of  the  more  ab- 
stract, though  still  altruistic,  sentiments  she  might 
feel.  "Well,"  she  admitted,  "I  guess  I  shouldn't 
have  bought  the  book,  after  all — at  least  not  just 
now."  But  of  course  she  could  keep  it  hidden.  "I 
needn't  show  it  to  Les  right  away."  For  that  mat- 
ter, need  she  ever  show  it  to  him?  "I  suppose — I 
really  suppose  I  might  drop  it  into  the  harbour,  and 
be  forever  rid  of  it!" 

As  though,  indeed,  determined  to  act  upon  this 
dramatic  impulse,  Louise  turned  and  walked  down 
amongst  some  fishermen's  huts  at  the  water's  edge. 
Most  of  the  fishermen  were  out  at  sea,  having  not 
yet  brought  in  the  morning's  haul  from  the  nets. 
The  rude  little  huts,  where  the  fish  were  cleaned  and 
packed  in  ice  for  shipping,  and  where  the  nets  were 
washed,  stood  idly  open.  The  early  sunshine  lay 
across  their  doorsteps.  Some  children  were  at  play, 
running  in  and  out;  and  before  one  of  the  huts  a  very 
old  woman  sat  mending  a  net,  working  her  hard 
fingers  in  a  quick,  intelligent  way. 


THE  ARRIVAL  97 

Louise  walked  out  upon  a  little  plank  dock  which 
was  flung,  at  this  point,  into  the  harbour.  The  fish- 
ermen used  the  dock  when  they  unloaded  their  car- 
goes of  fish.  It  did  not  extend  a  great  way;  but 
from  its  extremity,  as  she  faced  westward,  she  per- 
ceived the  approach  of  a  steamer,  still  out  in  the 
"Big  Lake,"  but  nearing  the  harbour  channel.  It 
was  probably  LynndaPs  boat,  though  it  might  pos- 
sibly be  one  of  the  Ann  Arbor  car  ferries  from  across 
Lake  Michigan.  She  must  hurry  to  the  wharf. 
Still,  the  notion  of  throwing  the  book  away  persisted. 
She  must  rid  herself  of  every  vestige  of  the  past. 
She  must  come  to  Lynndal — and  it  was  quite  thrill- 
ing to  put  it  that  way — empty-handed!  This  would 
seem  to  be  a  formal,  a  conclusive,  even  a  rather 
grand  way  of  marking  a  close  to  this  surreptitious, 
this  unfortunate,  yet  this  of  course  sufficiently  inno- 
cent little  affair  with  Leslie — poor  Les!  Yes,  it 
would  be  the  fitting  mark  of  conclusion;  after 
that  her  heart  would  be  swept  clean.  She  grasped 
the  book.  At  first  she  thought  she  would  fling  it  far 
out;  then  that  she  would  just  quietly  drop  it  in. 
But  after  all,  she  slipped  the  book  under  her  arm 
again,  and  made  her  way  hurriedly  back  to  the  vil- 
lage street. 

Her  mind  was  busy  with  explanation  and  a  re- 
adjustment not,  a  moment  ago,  foreseen.  "It  would 
have  been  foolish  and  stagy  to  have  done  that.  No, 
It  wouldn't  have  been  right!  Perhaps — "  yes,  per- 


98  THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

haps  Hilda  would  want  to  read  it  some  day.  She 
brightened.  "Leslie  said  there  was  much  instruc- 
tive reading  in  it."  Why,  yes — the  book  would  do 
for  Hilda,  if  not  for  her.  Mightn't  Hilda  even  do 
for  Leslie,  now  that  she  had  thrown  him  over?  Ah, 
it  might  be  so!  The  idea  occurred  to  Louise  at  first 
as  a  mere  flash  of  whimsy;  however,  second  thought 
made  the  possibility  rather  too  possible  to  be  alto- 
gether agreeable.  .  .  . 

"Why,  I  should  think  it  would  be  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world,"  she  assured  herself.  "Of 
course  Hilda's  awfully  young,  but  I  should  think  it 
would  be  perfectly  splendid  if  they  came  to  care  for 
each  other  in  time.  I'm  sure  it  would  make  it  ever 
so  much  easier  for  me."  She  remembered  how 
oddly  her  sister  had  behaved  earlier  in  the  day, 
whenever  Leslie  was  mentioned;  how  Leslie  him- 
self had  promised  Hilda  he  would  be  back  in  time 
to  play  m  the  tennis  tournament  with  her.  "I  think 
it  would  be  just  splendid!"  she  thought.  "I'll  en- 
courage it,  of  course,  all  I  can!" 

At  last,  she  felt,  there  was  a  real  solution  in 
sight  for  poor  Les.  It  would  be  the  very  thing! 
She  was  so  pleased  that  she  laughed  aloud  as  she 
passed  the  fat  and  shabby  patriarch  tilted  back  in 
his  red  armchair  before  the  drygoods  store.  But  it 
is  possible  that  even  the  patriarch,  in  a  philosophy  of 
age  as  opposed  to  that  of  youth,  merely  thought,  as 
he  saw  her  go  by:  "Another  of  the  resorters."  In- 


THE   ARRIVAL  99 

deed,  it  is  even  possible  that  he  did  not  see  her  at 
all. 

The  steamer  drew  in  through  the  channel.  It  was 
the  coast  steamer  from  Ludington,  and  connected 
with  the  Milwaukee  line.  Louise  stood  eagerly  be- 
side the  freight  house,  peering  up  at  the  passengers  on 
the  deck.  Naturally  she  was  very  much  excited, 
and  experienced  a  swift,  enveloping  sense  of  joyous 
romance  in  being  there  to  welcome  the  man  she  ex- 
pected some  day  to  marry. 

To  marry! 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  her  that,  after  all,  she 
had  hardly  thought  of  it  once  that  way!  Yes,  Lynn- 
dal  was  the  man  who  would  be  her  husband.  Mar- 
rying him — no,  she  had  somehow  barely  thought  of 
that  part.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  though  the  dis- 
covery was  a  little  staggering,  she  strained  her  eyes 
quite  gaily  for  a  first  glimpse  of  him;  wondered  if 
he  would  look  to  her  just  the  way  he  looked  during 
those  few  days  when  they  had  been  together  in  Ari- 
zona. But  just  how,  by  the  way,  did  he  look  then? 
All  at  once  she  thought  of  Lynndal  Barry  as  an  al- 
most absolute  stranger!  It  was  an  inexplicable  but 
quite  vivid,  a  rather  terrifying  sensation.  It  made 
the  roots  of  her  hair  faintly  prickle.  No,  for  the 
life  of  her  she  couldn't  think  of  any  one's  being  a 
more  perfect  stranger  than  Lynndal! 

Louise  wasn't  mystically  inclined.     Yet  what  she 


100          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

felt  seemed  almost  a  kind  of  foreboding.  Then 
she  laughed  to  herself,  a  gay  little  nervous  laugh. 
And  she  told  herself  it  was  only  natural  one  should 
feel  this  way,  and  that  it  was  all  a  part  of  her 
charming,  her  really  absorbing  romance. 


8 

HE  was  standing  by  the  rail  on  the  upper 
deck  of  the  steamer,  beside  a  man  with 
whom  he  appeared  to  be  in  conversation. 
She  had  no  difficulty,  after  all,  in  recognizing  him. 
Barry  was  still  the  tallish,  brown-moustached,  quiet- 
eyed  man  who  had  so  generously  exerted  himself  to 
make  her  brief  stay  in  Arizona  agreeable. 

She  saw  him  first,  the  advantage  giving  her  time  to 
look  away  again  before  his  eyes  discovered  her. 
Just  why  she  should  want  to  look  away  was  in  the 
nature  of  a  mystery;  yet  avert  her  eyes  she  cer- 
tainly did,  as  she  might  have  done  in  the  case  of  a 
stranger  whose  presence  had  casually  attracted  her 
notice.  The  feeling  that,  despite  what  had  passed 
between  them  under  the  discreet  propulsion  of  govern- 
ment postage,  she  did  not  really  know  this  man,  re- 
turned stronger  than  ever.  She  smiled  a  little — she 
had  to — at  her  own  manifest  perversity;  and  flushed 
vaguely,  too. 

As  soon  as  Lynndal  Barry  discovered  Miss  Need- 
ham  down  on  the  dock  his  face  lighted,  and  he 
grasped  the  arm  of  the  man  standing  beside 
him. 

"There  she  is!"  he  cried. 
101 


102          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

His  companion  looked,  but  was  a  moment  or  two 
trying  to  decide  which  of  the  several  very  possible 
young  ladies  standing  about  near  the  freight  house 
might  prove  to  be  she.  To  facilitate  the  other's 
search,  Barry  pointed.  And  Louise,  observing  the 
gesture  out  of  the  corner  of  an  eye,  coloured  and 
turned  still  more  away,  maintaining,  after  all, 
though  she  had  been  just  on  the  point  of  abandon- 
ing it,  the  pretense  that  she  had  not  yet  seen  the  man 
to  welcome  whom  she  had  risen  so  early  and  come 
so  far. 

Somehow,  a  wrong  note  had  been  struck.  Even 
the  Rev.  Needham — and  his  views  on  culture  were 
widely  known — had  often  cautioned  his  girls  against 
pointing  at  persons  or  things  in  public.  Lynndal 
ought  not  to  have  pointed.  Yes,  it  was  a  wrong  note 
— and  a  wrong  note  just  at  the  most  critical  time.  Of 
course  in  poising  this  action  of  his,  Louise,  it  is  quite 
patent,  now  failed  to  consider  one  thing;  she  failed, 
because  perversely  and  momentarily  she  was  out  of 
mood,  to  consider  that  a  young  man  who  has  trav- 
elled hundreds  of  miles  to  see  a  young  lady 
he  expects  to  marry  would  rather  naturally  be  so 
carried  away  at  the  first  sight  of  her  that  manners 
wouldn't  count  for  the  full  weight  of  their  every-day 
prestige.  Great  events  sanction  great  exceptions. 
But  Louise,  now,  was  not  prepared  to  make  the 
requisite  allowances.  She  had  thought  that  her 
heart  was  swept  clean;  but  it  wasn't.  What  demon 
was  it  which  had  lured  her  into  thinking  so  long 


THE   ARRIVAL  103 

about  Richard  and  Leslie  and — and  all  the  others 
while  she  waited  for  the  boat  to  come  in? 

Yes,  to  her  it  really  seemed  that  a  wrong  note  had 
been  struck.  Miss  Needham  found  herself  in  an 
oddly  cool  and  critical  mood — certainly  not  the  mood 
she  had  anticipated.  The  next  moment  it  softened; 
a  feeling  of  shy  warmth  stole  upon  her.  Still,  she 
half  wished  that  she  had  decided,  after  all,  not  to 
come  to  Frankfort,  but  had  been  content  to  await 
him  quietly  at  home.  That  would  have  given  her,  if 
nothing  else,  a  certain  reserve  of  dignity,  which  she 
felt  now  was  somehow  sacrificed.  Did  not  her  being 
here  on  the  wharf  to  meet  him  make  her  appear  too 
eager?  Would  it  not  have  been  much  better  to  come 
forward  gracefully  out  of  a  romantic  nowhere,  per- 
haps even  after  keeping  him  waiting  a  few  minutes? 
Then,  at  least,  she  needn't  have  undergone  the  minor 
humiliation — wasn't  it  almost  that? — of  being 
pointed  at.  She  pressed  the  book  under  her  arm. 
Suddenly  she  thought  of  Richard  and  his  exquisite 
manners.  .  .  . 

Lynndal  was  waving  his  hat  now,  trying  desper- 
ately to  attract  her  attention.  The  captain  of  the 
vessel  was  making  rather  a  poor  landing,  and  the 
sharp  little  reverse  and  forward  signals  in  the  engine- 
room  kept  sounding  repeatedly.  A  strip  of  water 
still  lay  between  the  ship  and  the  wharf,  though  crew 
huskies  stood  ready  to  heave  out  the  gang-plank  as 
soon  as  it  became  possible  to  establish  shore  con- 
nections. Louise  interested  herself  in  the  rougher 


104         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

activities  aboard  ship,  and  did  not  yet  raise  her  eyes 
to  the  man  who  now  stood  almost  directly  above 
her.  She  felt  conscious  of  a  sum  of  stares  in  her 
direction.  All  the  girls  on  the  wharf  had  taken  full 
note  of  the  pointed  finger  and  the  waving  hat.  Each 
knew — and  some,  perhaps,  not  without  regret — that 
these  demonstrations  did  not  apply  to  her.  A  quick 
inventory  of  wharf  possibilities  had  convinced  all 
present  that  it  must  be  Miss  Needham  who  was  the 
impetuously  favoured  individual.  He  had  seemed 
to  look  quite  squarely  at  her,  and  she  alone  had  not 
bestowed  on  his  pains  the  gaze  of  unfortunately  lack- 
ing acquaintance. 

At  length  one  of  the  younger  girls,  standing  near 
her,  touched  Louise's  arm.  "Some  one's  trying  to 
catch  your  eye,"  she  said.  And  she  nodded  up 
toward  Barry. 

He  observed  the  girl's  action  and  called  down: 
"Louise,  dear,  here  I  am — up  here!" 

And  then  it  was  that  she  relented,  at  last — thrilled 
a  little — raised  her  face  coyly  to  him,  and  smiled. 

No,  she  would  not  appear  too  eager.  Let  him  not 
think  he  was  winning  her  too  cheaply.  "Did  you 
have  a  pleasant  trip  across?"  she  asked. 

Just  the  faintest  shade  of  disappointment  crossed 
his  face.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  replied.  "Smooth  as  glass. 
How  are  you,  dear?" 

She  merely  nodded.  The  historical  novel  slipped 
out  from  under  her  arm  and  fell  to  the  ground.  She 
stooped  hurriedly  and  picked  it  up. 


THE   ARRIVAL  105 

"My,  it's  good  to  see  you!"  he  communicated 
through  a  hubbub  which  really  made  it  difficult  to  be 
heard. 

But  she  was  again  prevented,  or  spared,  a  reply, 
by  having  to  step  quickly  aside  as  the  gang-plank 
was  run  out.  The  ship  was  at  last  securely  moored. 
Barry's  grey-haired  companion  called  his  attention  to 
this  fact,  and  then  the  two  men  seized  their  bags  and 
hurried  down. 

Louise  stepped  aside  to  wait;  realized  an  aug- 
menting sense  of  strangeness  and  quandary — her 
heart  in  a  kind  of  flutter.  She  felt  now  hot,  now 
cold.  An  odd,  frantic  resolve  raced  through  her 
brain:  "He  mustn't  kiss  me!"  And  yet — for  there 
was  a  conflicting  after-flash — to  have  him  make  no 
attempt  would  constitute  the  very  essence  itself 
of  pique!  In  the  midst  of  this  rather  extraordinary 
mood,  Louise  recoiled,  as  it  were,  and  shook  herself. 
She  called  her  mental  turmoil  silly  and  maudlin;  she 
even  called  it  wicked.  Then  Lynndal  came,  and  the 
terrible  moment  passed,  leaving  her  banners  waving. 
Emphatically  it  had  been  in  his  mind  to  kiss 
her;  any  one  could  plainly  see  that;  the  act  itself, 
however  (for  he  must  not  feel  too  sure),  she  fore- 
stalled by  a  very  delicate  but  at  the  same  time  un- 
mistakable gesture  of  repulsion,  unto  which  he 
bowed  with  a  graceful  disappointment  that,  for  the 
time  being,  very  materially  lightened  the  prospect. 
She  had  won  in  the  first  skirmish;  and  the  knowledge 
of  victory,  the  delicious  sense  of  power  in  her  it 


106          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

seemed  to  emphasize,  put  her  in  an  easier,  more 
cheerful  frame  of  mind. 

Instead  of  kissing  Lynndal,  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him  with  shy  cordiality.  She  fancied,  in  a  whim- 
sical flash,  that  she  was  meeting  him  all  over  again, 
for  the  first  time.  A  subtle  sense  of  romance  in  this 
new  aspect  of  their  relationship  quickened  her 
heart.  .  .  . 

Barry's  shipboard  companion  was  still  at  his  side. 
Or  rather  not  quite  at  his  side,  either,  but  holding 
discreetly  back — even  courteously  discovering  a  sud- 
den optical  interest  in  another  quarter  of  the  compass. 
From  this  thoughtful  detachment  he  was  recalled  and 
introduced  as  Mr.  Barrett  O'Donnell. 

Miss  Needham  was  delighted  to  make  his  acquaint- 
ance— Miss  Needham  would  have  welcomed,  just 
then,  an  acquaintance  with  the  man  in  the  moon,  no 
matter  how  outlandish  he  might  prove.  For  the  mo- 
ment, if  in  a  way  delightful,  was  also  complex  and 
curiously  taut.  O'Donnell  jollied  things  up.  His 
was  a  re-ady  tongue,  with,  now  and  then,  just  a  whisper 
of  Irish;  his  smile  was  droll  and  cheering,  though 
perhaps  rather  too  facile — too  facile,  that  is  (for  it 
was  perfectly  sincere),  to  be  ever  quite  enveloping. 
Louise  walked  between  them,  and  the  three  made  their 
way  to  the  railroad  station,  where  the  locomotive  of 
a  "resort  special"  was  puffing  quite  prodigiously, 
and  pretending,  after  the  manner  of  locomotives,  to 
be  ever  on  the  verge  of  pulling  right  out,  mindless  of 
schedule. 


THE   ARRIVAL  107 

Miss  Needham  skipped  with  hectic  and  perverse 
coquetry.  She  stimulated  herself  anew  upon  the 
assurance  that  it  was  great  fun  having  a  lover  to  meet. 
And  it  was  really  fine,  for  another  thing,  to  be  able 
so  perfectly  to  dominate  the  scene,  disposing  all  ac- 
cording to  her  whim — best  of  all,  to  have  another 
man  right  there  on  the  spot  to  behold  these  palpable 
wonders!  She  remembered,  with  a  tiny  obscure 
pang,  how  she  had  wished  Rithard  might  be  present  to 
see  what  amazing  progress  she  had  made.  Richard 
she  could  not  have;  but  fortune  provided  a  substi- 
tute in  the  unsuspecting  person  of  jolly  Mr. 
O'Donnell. 

Louise's  mood  of  almost  saucy  pleasure  was 
sufficiently  generous  to  overflow  in  Barry's  favour, 
else  the  poor  man  would  surely  have  shivered  him- 
self to  death  ere  this.  She  smiled  up  at  him  with 
more  artlesssness  than  really  consorted  with  her 
triumph. 

"Hilda  was  afraid  you  might  not  come,"  she  chat- 
ted pleasantly,  flirting  a  little  with  the  corners  of 
her  mouth. 

"She  was?" 

"Yes,  she  was  dreadfully  worried — you  know  how 
children  are.  She'll  be  awfully  relieved  when  she 
sees  you." 

"But  you,"  he  asked,  half  jestingly  and  half  in 
faint  earnest,  " — you  weren't  afraid?" 

"I?  Oh,  no!"  She  laughed  along  with  the  denial. 
"Not  7." 


108         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

The  locomotive  was  coughing  and  wheezing  and 
snorting,  with  an  air  of  absurd  importance.  All  at 
once  there  was  a  tremendous  exhaust  which  sent  steam 
geysering  in  considerable  volume  to  either  side. 
They  were  so  close  that  the  roar  brought  a  tightening 
to  the  girl's  throat.  Barry  touched  her  arm,  gently 
insinuating  her  out  of  the  path  of  the  steam's  domin- 
ion. She  felt  the  momentary  pressure  of  his  fingers. 
And  through  the  hiss  and  dizzy  vibration  in  the  air  it 
was  as  though  he  were  saying  to  her:  "You  are  mine, 
all  mine!  You  are  mine  forever  and  ever!  You  can 
belong  henceforth  to  no  one  but  me!"  She  trembled 
and  felt  faint.  Her  heart  was  beset  with  goblins  and 
ghosts.  .  .  . 

When  they  had  settled  for  the  diminutive  journey, 
Louise  was  more  than  ever  glad  of  Mr.  O'Donnell's 
presence.  But  now  it  was  no  longer  so  much  that  he 
might  behold  the  brilliance  of  her  autocracy  as  that 
fehe  might  lean  upon  him  while  striving  to  adjust 
herself  to  the  almost  alarming  situation  Barry's  ar- 
rivjal  had  precipitated.  And  O'Donnell,  for  his  own 
part,  was  not  a  little  flattered  at  being  so  deluged 
with  attention  from  a  pretty  woman — especially  since 
she  had  a  real,  live  lover  sitting  right  beside  her! 
The  lover  himself  took  everything  in  a  perfectly 
philosophical  manner.  Naturally  she  didn't  want 
to  reveal  her  helart  to  the  wide  world,  his  comfort- 
able acquiescence  seemed  to  say.  She  was  reserving 
all  that  for  him  alone.  And  in  the  meantime  it  was 
very  decent  and  intelligent  of  her  to  be  nice  to  his 


THE   ARRIVAL  109 

friend.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Miss  Needham's  con- 
duct wasn't  by  any  means  so  sheer  and  vivid  as  the 
complex  which  produced  it;  she  was  not  behaving 
nearly  so  strangely  as  she  felt. 

The  journey  back  to  Beulah,  disproportionately 
lengthy  if  measured  on  the  dial  of  one's  watch,  was 
under  way.  All  the  coaches  were  packed  with  re- 
sorters  plying  off  in  search  of  adventure — adventure 
which,  in  its  most  substantial  form,  could  they  but 
know  it,  they  were  to  discover  inside  those  mysterious 
covered  baskets  stowed  away  under  seats  and,  some- 
times rather  precariously,  on  the  metal  racks  over- 
head. For  eating  is,  after  all,  the  Great  Adventure 
in  Middle  Western  resort  life.  One  might  perhaps 
hesitate  about  putting  it  ahead  of  canoes  in  the  moon- 
light, and  that  indispensable  adjunct  of  every  resort 
that  ever  was,  the  Lovers'  Lane.  But  whereas  the 
latter  phenomena  appeal  to  only  a  single  age  or 
mood  of  society,  the  adventure  of  filling  the  stomach 
appeals  to  everyone  ^alike,  old  and  young,  mighty  and 
humble.  So  far  as  the  present  excursionists  were 
concerned,  the  furtive  covers  were  soon  flapping;  and 
the  air  grew  tropical  with  the  persuasive  aroma  of 
bananas. 

Louise  sat  beside  her  lover  in  the  midst  of  these 
not  unfamiliar  scenes;  and  the  outcome  of  her  half 
agreeable,  half  harrowing  mental  complex  was  a 
slightly  hysterical  gaiety.  So  long  as  Mr.  O'Donnell 
was  with  them,  she  felt  secure.  But  why  was  this? 
Why  was  it  she  suddenly  dreaded  the  thought  of 


110          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

finding  herself  for  the  first  time  alone  with  Lynndal? 
Phantoms  swarmed.  In  her  letters  she  had  given 
him  every  promise.  Yet  now  he  was  with  her  again, 
she  dared  not  let  herself  go.  Phantoms  of  old  de- 
light; phantoms,  too,  projected  into  the  scope  of  an 
imagined  future.  .  .  .  The  words  she  had  seemed  to 
hear  while  the  steam  brought  that  queer  stuffiness  to 
her  throat,  still  echoed  troublingly:  "You  are  mine, 
all  mine!  You  can  belong  henceforth  to  no  one — 
but  to  me!"  Her  mind  was  all  charged  with  a 
brooding  unrest.  Externally  she  sparkled  and  was 
blithe;  but  within  lurked  a  vague  fever  of  appre- 
hension. .  .  . 

Things  like  this  may  conceivably  be  going  on  in 
almost  any  one's  mind  at  almost  any  time;  but  they 
are  never  shown.  We  are  adepts  when  it  comes  to 
guarding  our  guilty  struggles. 

The  train  was  winding  its  way  through  dismal 
swamp  country.  Stark  trunks  of  trees,  stripped  of 
verdure,  with  the  life  in  them  long  extinct,  stood 
knee-deep  in  brackish  water.  Though  the  day  was 
quite  bright,  an  impenetrable  veil  of  melancholy 
lay  over  the  swamplands — a  gloom  never  lifted, 
which  seemed  the  child  of  silence  and  stagnation. 
The  sad  blight  of  the  landscape  seeped  into  her 
heart.  She  was  twisting  her  life  this  way  and  that, 
absorbed,  as  usual,  in  the  mystery  of  her  own  fas- 
cinating if  at  present  rather  menaced  ego. 

Lynndal  Barry  and  his  companion,  chatting, 
seemed  unaware  of  the  girl's  momentary  absorption; 


THE   ARRIVAL  111 

her  curious,  almost  breathless,  detachment.  Al- 
though detached,  she  was  nevertheless  looking  at 
Barry  with  serious,  half-seeing  eyes.  And  all  at 
once  she  found  herself  thinking  of  him  respectfully, 
even  tenderly.  There  was  something  conspicuously 
ordered  and  kindly  and  calm  about  him.  She 
seemed,  abruptly,  conscious  of  a  great  patience  in 
this  man  who  had  come  to  her  out  of  the  West;  had 
scarcely  discovered  in  his  letters  how  essentially  ma- 
ture he  was.  But  the  next  moment  this  vaguely 
annoyed  her.  She  seemed  to  miss  in  him  the  thrill 
of  fire  and  passion  which  her  nature  craved.  He 
seemed  to  be  relaxed  upon  the  snug  hearth-rug  of 
life — yes,  in  slippers!  Barry  was,  actually,  not  much 
above  thirty;  but  his  seemed  to  her  now  a  poise 
unwelcome.  She  fingered  the  book  in  her  lap  with 
nervous,  groping  fingers;  even  shuddered  a  little  as 
she  gazed  off  across  the  swamp. 

Barry,  however,  seemed  aware  of  none  of  the  girl's 
emotional  fluxes.  Why  should  he  be?  How  could 
he  be?  Barry  didn't  even  in  the  least  suspect  that 
she  had  any  such  things  as  emotional  fluxes  in  her 
make-up ;  nor,  for  that  matter,  was  it  likely  he  would 
quite  know  an  emotional  flux  if  he  should  meet  it. 
This  must  not,  however,  be  taken  to  signify  that 
Barry  wasn't  sensitive,  for  he  was.  And  he  had  a 
way,  too,  of  biding  his  time,  which  sometimes  de- 
ceived people  into  thinking  him  invulnerable  to  the 
finer  antennae  of  feelings.  However,  though  his  ear 
was  not  entirely  deaf  to  the  unstrummed  music  of 


112          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

life,  he  did  not  as  yet  suspect — or  if  so,  not  more 
than  just  glancingly — that  there  was  to  be  a  flaw  in 
his  eager  little  romance. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  will  surprise  her  completely,  of 
course,"  O'Donnell  was  saying. 

"You  haven't  written  at  all,  then?" 

"You  see,  I've  only  just  learned  she  was  back 
from  Tahulamaji.  I  learned  about  it  in  town.  I 
may  say  I  learned  of  it  only  yesterday!" 

"It's  queer,  isn't  it,"  remarked  Barry,  with  al- 
most a  flash  of  imagination,  "we  should  have  hap- 
pened to  come  up  on  the  same  steamer?" 

And  then,  being  just  a  delightful,  sane,  normal  in- 
dividual, O'Donnell  said  what  had  to  be  said — what 
is  always  said  when  talk  reaches  such  a  point:  He 
said  that  the  world  was  small. 

Louise  came  back  to  them  with  an  effort.  The 
train  was  beginning  to  draw  up  out  of  the  swamp  re- 
gion, and  on  to  a  plain  better  adapted  to  rural  uses. 
The  sunshine  lay  very  bright  upon  the  grass.  An 
emotion  of  hope  stirred  in  her  heart.  Everything 
was  bound  to  turn  out  for  the  best — her  best,  she 
thought.  Of  course  it  would!  She  felt  all  at  once 
radiantly,  boundlessly  happy.  And  she  forgot  the 
words  in  the  steam,  when  his  fingers  had  touched  her 
arm. 

The  subject  of  this  miraculous  meeting  of  Barry 
and  O'Donnell  still  animated  a  conversation  which 
she  entered  with  almost  desperate  eagerness. 


THE   ARRIVAL  113 

"You  weren't  acquainted  before  you  met  on  the 
boat?" 

"Never  laid  eyes  on  each  other,"  laughed  the 
Irishman.  "We  began  talking  about  dry-farming  in 
the  gentlemen's  lounge,  and  from  that,  gradu- 
ally. .  .  ." 

"The  fact  is,"  put  in  Barry,  who  wanted  to  see 
what  little  mystery  there  was  cleared  up  as  quickly 
as  possible,  "we  found  we  were  both  on  our  way 
to—" 

" — to  besiege  ladies  living  under  the  same  roof!" 
concluded  the  other's  readier  tongue. 

Barry  coloured  a  bit  at  the  bluntness,  but  rather 
with  pleasure  than  embarrassment. 

"I  guess  I  don't  quite  understand,"  remarked 
Louise  a  little  coolly. 

"Well,  you  see,  the  fact  is  we're  very  old  friends, 
Miss  Whitcom  and  I — " 

"Aunt  Marjie!" 

"Yes — Marjie.  .  .  ."  He  repeated  the  name 
slowly,  and  with  the  sly  relish  of  one  who  is  not 
quite  sure  whether  he  would  dare  perpetrate  such 
an  indulgence  in  the  presence  of  the  adored  herself. 

"Why,  how  perfectly  romantic!"  cried  Louise. 
And  she  ceased  entirely,  for  the  moment,  to  be  con- 
cerned about  the  puzzling  and  rather  tangled  ro- 
mance of  her  own  life. 

"You  say  you  haven't  seen  each  other  for  years?" 

"Five  years,"  he  nodded. 


114         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Oh,  how  surprised  she  will  be!  I  do  certainly 
want  to  be  there  when  she  first  sees  you!" 

For  of  course  it  went  without  saying  that  they 
were  lovers.  Only  fancy!  Well — as  much  had 
been  said  outright.  He  was  coming  to  besiege 
Aunt  Marjie,  just  as  Lynndal.  .  .  . 

Her  heart  clouded  a  little  with  the  mist  of  per- 
plexity which  seemed,  now,  to  have  begun  settling 
the  moment  she  heard  Leslie's  step  outside  on  the 
hillside  at  dawn.  .  .  . 

But  O'Donnell  went  on  nonchalantly  enough:  "Oh, 
but  there'll  be  nothing  remarkable  at  all.  Miss 
Whitcom,  if  you'll  pardon  my  speaking  quite  freely 
of  your  relative,  has  the  most  extraordinary  control. 
Perhaps  you've  noticed  it.  I  can  tell  you  just  what 
she'll  do.  She'll  talk  about  the  new  wall  paper  in 
the  throne  room  of  the  Queen  of  Tahulamaji's  pal- 
ace. Or  else  it  will  be  still  some  perfectly  common- 
place remark  about  a  tiresome  old  swimming  medal. 
But  exclamations  in  the  true  sense?  No,  there  won't 
be  any,  Miss  Needham,  I  assure  you." 

Oh,  Eros!  Here,  sitting  all  perplexed  beside  the 
man  she  has  promised  to  marry — all  besieged  by 
ghosts  of  her  past  loves,  and  the  ghost  of  one  scarce 
passed  as  yet — is  a  woman.  And  yonder  in  a  cot- 
tage, covering  the  unlucky  shortage  of  pancakes 
with  mundane  chuckles,  is  another  woman  who  has 
been  pursued  for  twenty  years  by  one  dauntless  lover, 
and  who,  when  he  comes,  will  talk  about  the  paper  on 
the  wall. 


THE   ARRIVAL  115 

The  journey  drew  to  a  screeching  and  bumping 
close;  the  brakes  whistled,  and  the  locomotive  fell 
a-panting  most  lustily,  as  though  to  proclaim  that  it 
had  done  a  mighty  thing  indeed  in  hauling  a  few 
laden  coaches  a  dozen  miles  across  the  swamp-lands. 

The  intrepid  Pathfinder  lay  at  the  dock,  wait- 
ing. All  Beulah  had  turned  out,  it  really  seemed, 
to  welcome  the  train;  and  now  all  Beulah  swarmed 
down  to  bid  those  who  would  embark  farewell. 

There  was  the  mayor — or  so  one  fancied;  and 
there  were  aldermen — could  not  one  fairly  see  them 
sitting  in  solemn  council?  There  was  the  Methodist 
minister  in  his  half -clerical  week-day  togs;  there 
were  all  the  old  men  of  the  town,  and  all  the  old 
ladies;  all  the  boys  and  girls  and  babies;  together 
with  just  as  many  others  as  could  possibly  be  spared 
from  conducting  the  business  of  the  town.  The 
dock  was  quite  crowded.  Yet  Louise  and  her  two 
companions  were  the  only  passengers  the  Pathfinder 
was  to  bear  away. 

There  always  seemed  something  vaguely  sym- 
bolic about  these  important  departures  of  the  Path- 
finder. The  townsfolk  seemed  to  gaze  off  with  a 
kind  of  wistful  regret — yes,  from  the  mayor  down  to 
the  tinest  babe.  It  always  was  so:  as  though  the  Path- 
finder were  bound  for  free,  large  spaces  of  ocean; 
for  ports  in  Europe,  or  the  Indies.  And  the  towns- 
people could  only  assemble  on  the  shore  and  silently 
watch  this  ship's  glorious  westward  flight.  So  life 
went. 

Many  are  called,  but  few  are  chosen! 


PART    TWO 

THE  Kiss 


LESLIE  had  some  trouble  with  his  engine  on 
the  return  trip.  It  sputtered  and  it  balked. 
The  never  very  regular  rhythm  grew  more 
and  more  broken,  till  at  length  there  was  no  rhythm 
left  at  all.  Finally  the  thing  simply  stopped  dead; 
it  wouldn't  budge.  The  little  craft  rippled  forward 
a  few  paces  on  momentum,  then  swung  into  a  choppy 
trough  and  began  edging  dismally  back  toward 
Beulah.  Leslie  was  glad  then  that  Louise  wasn't 
aboard.  Yes,  he  was  very  glad  indeed  there  were  no 
ladies  present.  He  sat  down  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat  and  took  the  engine  to  pieces.  Then  he  put 
it  together  again.  And  tossed  and  tossed.  And 
drifted.  And  cursed  like  a  man. 

When  at  last  he  limped  up  to  the  dock  at  Crystalia, 
missing  fire  horribly,  and  having  to  help  along  by 
poling  as  soon  as  the  water  was  sufficiently  shallow, 
he  found  Hilda  waiting  for  him.  She  smiled  very 
brightly.  And  somehow  he  felt  the  unpleasantness 
of  the  voyage  fading  into  a  plain  sense  of  satisfac- 
tion over  being  back.  It  seemed  a  singularly  long 
time  since  he  had  set  out  with  Louise.  .  .  . 

"Good  morning!"  Hilda  called  to  him  from  the 
dock. 

119 


120          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

He  nodded  and  grinned;  and  poled,  perhaps,  the 
more  vigorously.  With  his  foot  he  desperately 
prodded  the  almost  exhausted  engine. 

"Why  Les,  what's  the  matter?"  she  cried.  For  he 
was,  in  truth,  a  sight. 

"Stalled  two  miles  out,"  he  replied  bluntly, 
though  not  curtly,  giving  the  engine  a  final  kick  by 
way  of  advising  it  that  its  labours  for  the  day  were 
at  an  end. 

"Why,  Les— how  dreadful!  Oh,  I  can't  help 
laughing.  Your  face  is  so  funny!" 

He  made  a  grimace  and  rubbed  his  cheeks  with 
the  sleeve  of  his  flannel  shirt,  not  particularly  im- 
proving matters  thereby. 

"I  don't  want  the  old  thing  any  more — it's  just  so 
much  junk!"  He  stepped  out  on  the  dock  and  moored 
the  naughty  little  craft,  though  without  any  great  en- 
thusiasm, and  rather  as  though  he  hoped  a  strong 
wind  would  come  and  carry  the  miscreant  irrevoc- 
ably to  sea.  Then  he  added:  "Hilda,  I've  got  an 
idea!  I'll  auction  it  off  and  turn  over  the  proceeds 
to  your  father's  missionary  fund!" 

Her  laugh  rang. 

"Don't  you  think  that  would  be  a  good  idea?" 

"Oh,  Les — you're  so  funny!" 

She  laughed  a  great  deal  as  they  walked  along  to- 
gether through  the  hot  white  sand  toward  the  Crysta- 
lia  cottages,  occupied  mostly  by  Chicago-Oak 
Park  people,  and  forming  no  part  of  what  was  gen- 
erally known  as  the  religious  colony.  Leslie  was  by 


THE   KISS  121 

this  time  entirely  over  his  maritime  grouch.  He 
conceived,  always  in  his  elusively  serious  way,  a  de- 
light in  being  quite  as  "funny"  as  he  could.  An  out- 
sider might  have  registered  the  impression  that,  even 
at  his  funniest,  Leslie  wasn't  honestly  amusing 
enough  to  elicit  such  frequent,  rich,  joyous  peals  of 
laughter;  but  Hilda  was  very  happy — happy! — so 
happy  that  she  needed  no  deliberate  stimulus  to 
mirth;  so  happy  she  could  with  the  utmost  ease  shift 
her  mood  from  grave  to  gay,  or  from  gay  to  grave, 
matching  the  mood  of  her  companion. 

"I  know  you've  forgotten,"  she  said,  swinging 
along  beside  him  and  occasionally  flashing  up  a 
most  captivating  glance. 

"Forgotten  what?" 

"I'll  never  tell!" 

"Then  how  can  I  know  what  I've  forgotten,  if  you 
don't  remind  me?"  Though  gossamer  at  best,  it  had 
an  effect  of  logic — perhaps  a  rather  graspable  mas- 
culine logic,  at  that. 

"Maybe  you'll  remember — when  it's  too  late." 
Her  eyes  sparkled. 

"Oh,  you  mean  the  tournament?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  hadn't  forgotten  it." 

"Well,  you  see  I  was  afraid  you  had." 

He  smiled.     She  was  really  quite  delightful. 

"I'm  so  glad,  Les.  There'll  be  time  for  you  to 
get  into  light  things.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  your  memory 
didn't  really  fail!" 


122          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

He  looked  at  her  quietly  a  moment,  but  her  gaze 
was  now  all  on  the  sun-patterned  turf.  They  had 
entered  the  forest  of  Betsey,  and  were  pursuing  the 
winding  road  toward  the  Point. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  he  said  solemnly.  "I  never 
forget  appointments  with  ladies." 

She  laughed  again,  then  ventured:  "Tell  me. 
Didn't  you  forget,  just  the  tiniest  little  bit,  when  you 
were  taking  Louise  across,  or,"  she  rather  hurried 
on,  "when  you  were  out  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
lake  and  the  engine  was  acting  up?  Please  be  ever 
so  honest!" 

Leslie  looked  down  again  at  the  girl  beside  him. 
Odd  he  had  never  noticed  how  intelligent  and  shyly 
grown-up  Hilda  was!  She  had  been  merely  Lou- 
ise's little  sister;  all  at  once  she  became  Hilda,  a 
self-sufficient  entity,  perfectly  capable  of  standing 
alone.  Also  she  looked  very  fresh  and  charming 
this  morning  in  her  cool  white  jumper  and  skirt.  He 
looked  at  Hilda  in  a  kind  of  searching  way;  then, 
pleasantly  meeting  her  eyes,  he  answered  her  ques- 
tion. "No,  not  even  the  tiniest  little  bit." 

Their  walk  together  through  the  forest  was  en- 
livened with  gay  and  unimportant  chatter.  As  they 
passed  the  hidden  bower  where  Hilda,  at  an  earlier 
hour,  had  crouched  to  spy  and  listen,  the  girl  almost 
danced  at  the  thought  of  having  so  delightfully 
usurped  her  sister's  place.  And  the  best  part  of  it 
was  that  it  was  perfectly  all  right;  because  Louise 
had  gone  to  meet  her  own  true  lover.  Leslie  didn't 


THE   KISS  123 

belong  to  Louise;  it  seemed  almost  too  wonderful  to 
be  true  that  he  didn't! 

As  it  happened,  Louise  entered  the  lad's  thoughts 
also  as  he  and  Hilda  walked  side  by  side  along  the 
sylvan  path.  Perhaps  something  of  the  same  odd 
transposition  weighed,  even  with  him.  He  had 
gone  this  identical  way  with  some  one  else,  only  a 
few  eternities  ago.  He  had  held  her  in  his  arms  a 
moment,  and  then.  .  .  .  Then  what  was  it  she  had 
said?  Friends!  First  she  had  said  she  cared,  and 
after  that  she  had  said  she  wanted.  .  .  .  Did  she 
really  know  what  she  wanted?  For  weeks  they  had 
gone  around  together  constantly.  The  moon  had 
been  wonderful.  Then  the  letter  had  come  from  the 
West,  and  she  had  decided  she  had  better  begin  being 
a  nice,  harmless  sister.  Still,  she  had  let  him  kiss 
her  once,  even  after  the  advent  of  the  fatal  epistle — 
a  sort  of  passionate  farewell  surrender — wanted  to 
let  him  down  as  easy  as  possible.  Ugh!  He  was 
in  no  mood  to  spare  her  now.  And  then  Leslie  came 
slowly  back;  back  to  the  bright,  rare  summer  morn- 
ing; back  to  the  forest  of  Betsey,  with  its  hopeful 
glints  of  sunshine;  back — to  Hilda.  He  sighed. 
At  least  he  had  learned  something  more  about 
women. 

They  came  to  Beachcrest  Cottage,  and,  since  Les« 
lie's  cottage  was  further  along,  in  the  direction  of 
the  lighthouse,  it  was  here  they  parted.  Before  he 
ran  off,  however,  to  make  himself  presentable,  Les- 
lie underwent  the  ordeal  (pleasant  rather  than  not 


124          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

as  it  turned  out),  of  being  introduced  to  Miss  Whit- 
corn. 

She  was  seated  on  the  second  step  of  the  flight  lead- 
ing up  to  the  screened  porch,  seemed  in  very  good 
spirits,  and  was  writing  a  letter — employing  a  last 
year's  magazine  as  base  of  operations.  Tlie  ink 
bottle  balanced  itself  just  on  the  edge  of  the  next 
step  up:  a  key,  if  one  please,  to  Marjory  Whitcom's 
whole  character.  Had  she  been  writing  at  the  cot- 
tage desk  in  the  living  room,  where  everything  was 
convenient,  then  she  would  never,  never  have  spent 
her  life  doing  wild  and  impossible  things.  And  had 
the  ink  bottle  been  placed  firmly  instead  of  upon 
the  raged  edge,  then,  having  eluded  Barrett  O'Don- 
nell  all  these  years,  she  would  not  now  be  writing  to 
him. 

"Aunt  Marjie,"  said  Hilda,  her  eyes  shining  and 
her  cheeks  flushed,  "this  is  Leslie." 

He  was  pleased  to  meet  Miss  Whitcom,  but  assured 
her  he  must  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  shaking 
hands.  Look  at  them!  He  had  had  his  engine  all 
to  pieces.  He  was  going  to  auction  off  the  boat  now 
and  give  the  Rev.  Needham's  missionary  fund  the 
first  real  boost  in  a  decade. 

"Leslie!"  hushed  Hilda  in  great  dismay.  How 
did  they  know  but  the  Rev.  Needham  might  be  within 
hearing  distance? 

But  Miss  Whitcom  laughed  delightedly,  whether 
or  no,  and  said  that  after  hearing  such  a  gallant 
expression  of  religious  zeal  she  simply  must  shake 


THE   KISS  125 

his  hand,  grime  and  all.  And  she  did  so.  She  had 
a  way  of  winning  young  men  completely. 

"And  did  you  pilot  my  elder  niece  over  to 
Beulah  before  we  sleepyheads  here  at  home  were 
even  stirring?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Marjie.  It  was  Leslie.  You  know!" 
And  Hilda  blushed  at  her  very  vagueness,  which 
swept  back  so  quaintly  to  embrace  the  pancake 
catastrophe. 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Miss  Whitcom  with  dreadful 
pointedness.  "I  know — oh,  yes.  I  know  very  well 
indeed!  And  I  know  of  a  certain  young  lady  who 
departed  and  forgot  to  turn  off  the  burners  of  the 
stove,  so  that  plain,  humdrum  mortals  must  quit  the 
table  hungry — positively  hungry!" 

Leslie  somehow  managed  to  establish  connections. 
"Whatever  happened,  I'm  afraid  I  was  partly  to 
blame,  Miss  Whitcom." 

"Aha!  Only  partly?"  For  she  fancied  his  chiv- 
alry carried  along  with  it  a  tone,  so  far  as  he  was 
concerned,  of  extenuation. 

"Well,  I  suppose  having  me  there,  talking,  helped 
to  make  her  forget." 

"H'm!"  She  eyed  him  in  her  odd,  sharp 
way.  But  he  looked  back  with  a  half  understand- 
ing defiance.  "So  you  won't  take  all  the 
blame?" 

Leslie  smote  the  lower  step  with  his  foot,  then 
shyly  glanced  at  Hilda.  Hilda  laughed  and  col- 
oured. 


126          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

So  Miss  Whitcom  said,  looking  drolly  off  to  sea? 
"The  plot  thickens!" 

And  she  was  right;  there  were  greater  doings 
ahead. 

Leslie  sprang  off  along  the  ridge  to  get  into  tennis 
garb.  He  decided,  as  was  only  natural,  that  the  one 
infallible  way  of  cleansing  himself  was  to  plunge 
into  the  sea.  He  was  consequently  in  his  little  cot- 
tage bedroom  about  two  minutes,  and  then  emerged 
in  swimming  apparel. 

Leslie  was  well-formed  and  sun-browned.  He 
sped  off  over  the  sand  to  the  shore,  and  thence  dived 
straight  out  of  sight. 

"Swims  rather  well,"  commented  Miss  Whitcom. 
"That  crawl  stroke  isn't  by  any  means  the  easiest 
to  master." 

"Yes,  Leslie's  the  best  swimmer  on  the  Point,"  said 
Hilda  proudly. 

Miss  Whitcom  dipped  her  pen,  but  the  ink  went 
dry  on  it,  and  the  letter  lay  uncompleted. 

"I  do  believe  he's  forgotten  all  about  you  and  is 
going  to  swim  straight  across!"  she  declared.  For 
Leslie  was,  indeed,  streaking  out  in  fine  style,  mak- 
ing the  water  splash  in  the  sun,  and  occasionally  toss- 
ing his  head  as  though  keenly  conscious  of  life's 
delightfulness. 

"He'll  turn  back,"  said  Hilda  quietly. 

"You  think  so?" 


THE   KISS  127 

"I  know  he  will!"  she  laughed. 

"Oh,  you  know?" 

"Why  how  ridiculous!  Nobody  could  swim  clear 
across,  Aunt  Marjie.  It's  seventy  miles!" 

"Really?" 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  anybody  swimming  as  far 
as  that?" 

"I'm  not  sure  I  ever  did,"  the  other  admitted. 
They  were  silent  a  little,  both  watching  the  swimmer. 
Then  the  lady  remarked  in  a  dreamy  way:  "They 
always  look  so  fine  and  free  when  they're  young, 
and  the  sun  flashes  over  the  water,  and  they  make 
straight  out,  as  though  they  never  meant  to  stop  at 
all." 

Hilda  was  a  little  at  a  loss  to  know  how  this  rather 
curious  speech  should  be  taken.  She  felt  dimly  that 
there  was  something  below  the  surface,  as  so  fre- 
quently there  seemed  to  be  when  Aunt  Marjie  spoke; 
but  at  first  she  couldn't  imagine  what  it  was. 

"So  fine  and  free,"  Miss  Whitcom  repeated  in  the 
same  tone.  "They  make  straight  out.  But  they  al- 
ways turn  back." 

And  then  Hilda  asked,  giving  voice  to  a  sudden 
bold  dart  of  intuitive  understanding:  "You  mean 
men,  Aunt  Marjie?" 

Whereupon  her  aunt  laughed  away  the  odd  im- 
pulse of  symbolism.  "Yes,  the  men,  Hilda.  They 
try  to  carry  us  off  our  feet  in  the  beginning.  They 
want  us  to  believe  they're  young  gods.  And  they 


128          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

can't  understand  why  some  of  us  are  coming  to  grow 
sceptical,  and  why  we're  beginning  to  want  to  try 
our  hand  at  a  few  things  ourselves." 

"He's  turning  around  now!"  cried  Hilda,  who  was 
not  paying  the  very  best  sort  of  attention. 

"Yes,  poor  dears,"  the  other  persisted.  "The 
other  shore  would  be  too  far  off." 

"Oh,  much  too  far!"  agreed  Hilda,  jumping  up 
to  wave  her  hand. 

Whatever  Aunt  Marjie  might  be  getting  at,  Hilda, 
for  her  part,  was  ever  so  glad  of  the  sea's  prohib- 
itive vastness. 


THE  Rev.  and  Mrs.  Needham  came  out  on  to 
the  porch,  he  preceding  her  through  the 
doorway;  there  was  just  the  faintest  evidence 
of  her  shoving  him  on  a  little. 

Her  whispered  "Yes,  Alf,  yes!"  might,  of  course, 
represent  an  exclamation  apropos  of  almost  any- 
thing. For  instance,  the  words  might  form  the  tail- 
end  of  almost  any  sort  of  domestic  conversation — or 
perhaps  a  talk  about  holding  a  Sunday  School  rally 
in  the  fall.  The  incomplete  phrase  might,  in  one's 
imagination,  expand  itself  into  something  like  this: 
"Yes,  we  really  must.  Nothing  like  a  well-planned 
rally  to  stir  up  the  interest  of  the  young  folks.  Yes, 
Alf,  yes!"  But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs.  Needham 
and  her  husband  had  not  been  discussing  any  such 
matters.  The  authentic  conversation,  to  go  back  a 
little,  which  had  just  antedated  egress  from  the  cot- 
tage living  room,  ran,  in  fact,  as  follows: 

"Alf,  I  do  want  you  two  to  get  better  acquainted!" 

"What?" 

"More  intimate,  and  not.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  Anna?" 

"Not  quite  so — so  stiff,  somehow.  .  .  ." 

"H'm-m-m!" 

129 


130         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Alf,  she's  so  good-hearted.  If  it's  true  she  has 
changed  any  way,  who  knows  but  you  might  have  an 
influence.  .  .  ?" 

He  sighed  heavily.  They  stood  facing  each  other. 
It  became  a  little  formal. 

"Alf,  this  would  be  a  splendid  chance.  She's 
right  out  there  on  the  steps!" 

"Oh,  well — really!  Not  this  morning.  No,  not 
just  now,  when  we're  all  keyed  up  about  Barry.  In 
the  course  of  time,  I  daresay.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  now,  Alf,"  she  coaxed,  in  a  very  low,  throaty, 
persuasive  contralto.  "Oh,  do  go  out  there  now! 
I'll  call  Hilda  in  for  something.  There's — there's 
some  mending — ought  to  be  done  right  away,"  she 
quickly  added,  as  the  suspicion  hovered  between 
them  that  Hilda  would  be  called  in  on  mere  pretense. 

"Anna,  maybe  this  afternoon." 

"Now!     Oh,  Alf— nowl" 

"Anna,  I—" 

"Yes,  Alf,  yes!" 

And  so  he  was  gently  pushed  on  to  the  porch. 

Hilda  and  Marjory  looked  up.  There  was  a  bar- 
ricade of  mosquito  netting  between  them  and  the 
emerged  pair.  Hilda  was  flushed.  She  had  just 
been  waving  to  some  one  in  the  water.  Marjory's 
eyes  kindled  with  indefinite  mirth,  and  at  this  kind- 
ling the  minister's  heart  quaked  a  little.  There  was 
something  about  his  wife's  sister — yes,  he  thoroughly 
admitted  it  now;  there  was  something  about  her. 
She  was  strange  and  incompatible.  Had  she,  in- 


THE   KISS  131 

deed,  become  inclined  to  be  atheistical  in  her  beliefs? 
Was  that  what  made  him  feel  so  uncomfortable,  al- 
ways, in  her  presence?  He  a  man  of  the  pulpit,  it 
would  be  natural  that  the  ungodly  should  fill  him 
with  distrust;  natural  they  should  make  him  wary 
and  cautious.  Was  it  that  in  Marjory?  Was  it 
thai? 

"Hilda,  see  here  a  minute,"  said  Mrs.  Needham; 
and  she  beckoned  discreetly.  Hilda  followed  her 
mother  into  the  cottage. 

This  left  the  Rev.  Needham  on  one  side  of  the 
screening  and  Miss  Whitcom  on  the  other.  Miss 
Whitcom  still  sat  on  the  second  step  with  the  pen  in 
her  hand.  She  had  dipped  the  pen  a  good  many 
times,  but  the  letter  was  no  further  advanced.  She 
turned  to  watch  Leslie  get  in  the  last  full  strokes  and 
crawl  out.  He  lay  in  the  hot  sand  a  moment  or  so 
before  racing  indoors. 

The  Rev.  Needham  had  sunk  into  the  nearest 
chair,  and  sat  there  rocking,  with  just  perceptible 
nervousness,  clearing  his  throat  from  time  to  time 
in  a  manner  which  appeared  to  afford  that  portion  of 
his  anatomy  no  appreciable  relief.  It  seemed  a 
kind  of  moral  clearing.  It  was  the  vague  articula- 
tion of  incertitude. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Marjory  had  forgotten  all 
about  her  brother-in-law.  She  was  musing.  At 
length  a  more  desperate  laryngeal  disturbance  than 
any  that  had  preceded  brought  her  back  to  contem- 
porary consciousness. 


132          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Ho!"  she  cried.  "I  didn't  know  you  were  there, 
Alfred!"  There  were  times  when  he  thought  her 
almost  coarse. 

"I  thought  Fd  just  come  out  here  a  few  minutes," 
he  said  "It's  quite  cool  on  this  side,  till  the  sun  gets 
round."  The  minister  sighed.  He  had  an  uncom- 
fortable inner  feeling  that  he  hadn't  quite  justified 
his  presence.  It  was,  to  be  sure,  his  own  porch;  but 
that  did  not  make  any  difference.  Dimly  he  hoped 
his  relation  would  not  relinquish  her  position  on  the 
second  step. 

Marjory  dipped  her  pen  again,  but  the  letter  was 
doomed.  With  a  gesture  of  languid,  smiling 
despair  the  task  was  conclusively  abandoned. 

"No,  it's  no  use,"  she  muttered,  rather  unintel- 
ligibly. "I  never  can  concentrate  at  a  resort." 

"Beg  pardon,  Marjory?" 

"I  just  want  to  dream  and  dream  all  day.  Isn't  it 
dreadfully  delightful?" 

"Yes — we  like  it  up  here,"  he  replied,  the  least  bit 
stiffly. 

"Alfred,  how  did  you  ever  happen  to  come  so 
far?" 

"So  far?" 

"Yes;  aren't  there  any  resorts  in  Ohio?" 

"Well,  you  see  it  was,  to  begin  with,  on  account  of 
the  Summer  Assembly.  .  .  ." 

She  didn't  fully  fathom  it  until  he  had  explained: 
"We're  a  sort  of  religious  colony  here  on  the  Point." 

"Oh-h-h!"  cried  the  lady  then,  with  the  air  of  one 


THE  KISS  133 

who  is  vastly — perhaps  a  little  satirically — enlight- 
ened. I  understand  now  what  Anna  meant  yester- 
day when  she  spoke  about  'visiting  clergymen.' 
You  hold  meetings,  I  presume,  and  then  have  some 
refreshments  at  the  end?" 

"No  refreshments,"  he  replied,  in  a  rather  dry 
tone,  reproving  her  at  the  same  time,  with  an  almost 
sharp  glance. 

"Well,"  she  agreed,  with  a  touch  of  apology,  "I 
suppose  you  wouldn't.  I  was  thinking  of  some  of 
our  Tahulamaji  pow-wows." 

To  this  he  made  no  reply;  but  the  somewhat  chill 
dignity  of  the  silence  which  ensued  provoked,  alas, 
an  even  more  unfortunate  question. 

"Alfred,  I  know  you'll  consider  me  perfectly 
awfully  impossible,  but  it's  been  such  a  long  time. 
.  .  .  I've  forgotten — I  really  have.  .  .  .  It — it 
isn't  Methodist,  is  it  ...  ?" 

"Methodist,  Marjory?" 

"What  I  mean  is,  you're  not.  .  .  .  Oh,  Alfred, 
for  heaven's  sake  before  I  simply  explode  with 
chagrin,  do  quickly  tell  me  what  you  are!" 

"My  denomination?"  he  asked  unhappily. 

"That's  the  word!  Do  please  forgive  a  poor 
creature  who's  lived  so  long  in  out-of-the-way  places 
that  she's  half  forgotten  how  to  be  civilized!" 

"There  are  certain  things,"  the  Rev.  Needham  told 
himself  icily,  "one  never  quite  forgets,  unless 
one.  .  .  ."  He  started  a  little,  raised  his  eyes 
wanly  to  hers,  but  shifted  them  quickly  to  the 


134         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

landscape.  "I  am  a  Congregational  minister, 
Marjory,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  dear  me!  Of  course!  I'm  sure  I  remem- 
bered subconsciously.  Don't  you  think  such  a  thing 
is  possible?" 

"You  mean  .  .  .  ?"  He  seemed  unable  fully  to 
concentrate,  either — though  not  primarily  because 
this  was  a  resort. 

"I  mean  remembering  subconsciously.  But  you 
see  it's  all  because  in  Tahulamaji  we  get  so  fearfully 
lax  about  everything." 

Was  this  his  cue?  He  fidgeted,  glanced  sidewise 
to  see  whether  his  wife  were  within  range  of  his 
voice. 

"I  presume  there's  a  great  deal  of  laxness  in 
Tahulamaji.  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  she  pondered,  accepting  his  wider  im- 
plication. "Yes,  I'm  afraid  so.  Still,  of  course, 
one  must  never  lose  sight  of  the  missionaries." 

"Yes!"  brightened  her  brother-in-law.  "We  help 
support  a  missionary  in  Tahulamaji.  Perhaps 
you—" 

"No,  Alfred,  no.  I'm  afraid  I've  never  had  that 
pleasure.  You  see  I've  been  so  busy,  and  the  mis- 
sionary seems  always  so  busy,  too." 

"There's  much  to  be  done,"  he  reminded  her 
simply. 

She  was  quite  serious  and  respectful.  He  began 
to  grow  more  at  ease;  more  expansive;  told  her  a 
great  deal  about  what  missionaries  do  in  foreign 


THE   KISS  135 

lands,  and  especially  what  the  missionary  in 
Tahulamaji  was  doing.  His  talk  grew  really  inter- 
esting. Then  there  was  a  shift  which  brought  them 
round  to  the  activities  of  the  church  in  America. 

"We're  trying  to  broaden  out  all  we  can,"  he  told 
her.  "Every  year  new  opportunities  seem  to  be 
opening  up.  We  have  to  keep  abreast  of  the  times. 
For  instance,  there's  the  parish  house — " 

Leslie's  arrival  interrupted  them.  He  was  now 
dressed  in  white  and  wore  a  purple  tie.  Hilda  came 
skipping  across  the  porch  and  ran  down  the  steps  to 
him. 

"You  must  wish  us  luck!"  she  called  back  over  her 
shoulder. 

"Just  bushels  of  it!"  Miss  Whitcom  called  loudly 
after  them. 

Mrs.  Needham  had  come  to  the  door  of  the  cottage. 
She  stood  surveying  the  situation  so  laboriously  con- 
trived. Having  Marjory  out  there  on  the  second  step 
and  her  husband  above  in  the  rocker,  with  a  wall  of 
netting  between  them,  did  not  somehow  seem  very 
auspicious.  But  she  sighed  and  quickly  withdrew; 
it  was  better  than  no  situation  at  all.  She  thought  of 
a  text  her  husband  had  used  once :  "Be  ye  content  with 
what  the  Lord  giveth" — or  something  to  that  effect. 

The  Rev.  Needham  cleared  his  throat,  again  priv- 
ately a  little  nervous.  For  no  reason  at  all  there  had 
seemed  to  him  a  godless  twang  to  her  gracious,  full- 
voiced  "just  bushels  of  it!" 

Miss   Whitcom   recovered   the   threads   for  him. 


136          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Yes,  yes,  Alfred.  Quite  so.  You  were  saying 
something  about  a  parish  house." 

"We  hope  to  build  one,  in  the  spring  ...  if  we 
can,"  he  went  on.  "The  money's  partly  raised.  Of 
course  it  takes  a  long  time — money  doesn't  seem  very 
plentiful  just  now.  But  the  parish  house,  when  we 
get  it" — his  eyes  lighted  softly — "will  add  so  much  to 
our  practical  facilities." 

She  noted  this  softness,  and  it  touched  her  a  little. 
All  the  same  she  had  some  not  very  soothing  things  to 
say. 

"Yes,  I've  no  doubt.  I'm  quite  amazed — I  may 
say  almost  frightened,  Alfred — at  the  development  of 
the  common-sense  idea  in  America.  You  notice  it 
especially,  I  suppose,  coming  in  like  this  from  a  long 
absence.  The  change,  I  may  say,  quite  smites  one. 
It's  baffling — it's  bewildering!  Good  gracious,  all 
the  old,  moony  Victorianism  gone!  The  whole  ec- 
clesiastical life  of  the  community  made  over  into 
something  so  dashing  and  up-to-date  that  I  tell  you 
frankly,  Alfred,  I'd  be  almost  afraid  to  go  into  a 
church,  for  fear  I  might  no  longer  know  how  to  be- 
have! It's  amazing,  Alfred — it  really  is — how  'prac- 
tical' religion  has  grown.  I  tell  you  I  never  would 
have  dreamed  the  church  had  such  a  future!  I  come 
back  from  my  long  sojourn  in  heathendom,  and  what 
do  I  find?  I  find  religion  all  slicked  up  on  to  a  strict 
business  basis.  At  last  the  church  of  God  has  reached 
an  appreciation  of  the  value  and  importance  of 
money!  Everywhere  you  read  of  mammoth  cam- 


THE   KISS  137 

paigns  to  raise  millions  of  dollars.  You  have  to  have 
a  real  business  head  on  your  shoulders  nowadays — 
don't  you  find  it  so,  Alfred? — to  be  a  minister. 
It's  wonderful  simply  beyond  belief!  If  Christ  were 
to  walk  in  suddenly  I  know  he  would  have  to  show  his 
card  at  the  door.  I  know  they  would  ask  him  what 
he  came  about  and  how  long  the  interview  would  take. 
Practical  Christianity,  you  call  it,  don't  you,  Alfred?" 

"Marjory,  I...." 

"Ah — now  I've  shocked  you!  Yes,  I  see  I  have. 
You  mustn't  mind  my  speaking  out  so  bluntly.  It's 
a  way  I've  rather  fallen  into  of  late,  I'm  afraid. 
And  when  I  say  the  new  Christianity  seems  baffling  to 
me,  I  mean  it's  quite  splendidly  baffling.  Practical 
Christianity — what  a  fine  idea  it  was!  I  wonder  who 
thought  of  it.  Yes,  the  church  was  always  too  exclu- 
sive. There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it.  Practical  Christ- 
ianity— practical  philanthropy — with  the  elaborate 
social  service  bureaus — they've  just  simply  trans- 
formed everything.  What  a  hustle  and  bustle — and 
what  undreamed-of  efficiency!  Just  think  how  effi- 
ciently the  church  stood  back  of  the  war!  And  yet — 
you  must  pardon  me — I  somehow  can't  help  feeling 
that  even  with  all  its  slogans  and  its  hail-fellow  slaps 
across  your  shoulders.  .  .  .  You  know" — she  inter- 
rupted herself,  in  a  way,  but  it  was  to  pursue  the  same 
trend  of  thought — "I  had  quite  an  adventure  on  the 
train,  coming  from  New  York.  I  watched  a  Bishop 
retire!  Oh,  don't  look  so  scandalized,  Alfred.  Of 
course  it  was  quite  all  right." 


138          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"I  hope  so,  Marjory,"  he  murmured  limply. 

"I  must  tell  you  about  the  Bishop,  Alfred.  He  was 
just  the  kind  of  man  you  would  expect  a  Protestant 
bishop  to  be — his  face,  I  mean.  Calm — so  very 
calm — and  so  gently  yet  firmly  ecclesiastic!  He 
wore  an  unobtrusive  but  stylish  clerical  costume  of 
soft  grey,  and  a  little  gold  cross  hung  round  his 
neck — you  know.  It  struck  me  as  never  before  how 
close  the  Episcopacy  is  snuggling  up  to  Rome.  .  .  . 
Oh,  but  I  must  tell  you  about  the  Bishop's  going  to 
bed!" 

The  Rev.  Needham  sat  there  almost  breathless  on 
his  screened  porch.  His  dismay  might  have  struck 
one  as  speechless — at  any  rate,  he  was  speechless. 

"The  Bishop,"  continued  Miss  Whitcom,  "seemed 
very  weary.  There  was  a  quiet,  tired  look  in  his  eyes. 
He  had  his  dinner  early,  sitting  all  alone  at  one  of  the 
little  tables  on  the  shady  side.  I  ate  my  dinner  at 
another  of  the  little  tables,  and  was  quite  fascinated. 
There  was  something  so  patrician  about  him.  He 
was  so  subtly  sleek!  I  didn't  see  him  again  until  his 
berth  was  made  up.  But  the  making  up,  Alfred,  was 
what  fascinated  me  more  than  the  Bishop  himself! 
The  porter  was  just  fitting  things  together  when  I  came 
in  from  my  simple  dinner.  He  spread  down  one 
mattress,  and  then — Alfred,  I  gasped  to  see  it — he 
spread  down  another  right  on  top  of  it!" 

"Another,  Marjory?"  The  minister  appeared 
quite  absorbed,  almost  fascinated. 


THE   KISS  139 

"Had  he  taken  the  whole  section?"  she  demanded. 

To  this  no  reply  was  ventured,  and  she  continued: 

"Or  did  he  get  them  both  as  a  kind  of  divine  dispen- 
sation? Anyway,  the  bed,  I  must  say,  looked  almost 
royal.  There  were  four  pillows  instead  of  two,  and 
they  were  given  little  special  pats  and  caresses.  All 
of  a  sudden  I  thought  of  Jacob's  stone,  Alfred. 
Wasn't  it  funny?  I  couldn't  help  it.  And  then  I 
thought  about  'the  Son  of  Man  hath  not  where  to  lay 
His  head' — wasn't  it  curious?  And  then,  only  then, 
Alfred  (you  see  how  slow  I  am),  it  occurred  to  me 
that  this  must  be  a  part  of  the  new  order  of  things!  It 
came  to  me  almost  like  an  inspiration  that  the  bed  of 
the  Bishop  must  have  something  to  do  with  Practical 
Christianity.  But  I'm  forgetting  the  last  appealing 
touch,  Alfred.  The  Bishop  had  a  huge  bag  of  golf 
sticks  with  him.  They  reposed  all  night  in  the  upper 
berth!" 

She  ended  her  rather  long  story  about  the  Bishop; 
and  its  precise  interpretation  remained  a  thing  of 
doubt  for  the  minister.  Was  she  serious?  Or  was 
she  only  laughing?  His  bearing  now  argued  a  pre- 
paredness for  either  mood.  But  whatever  her 
motive,  in  a  moment  Miss  Whitcom  appeared  to  have 
forgotten  all  about  the  Bishop  and  to  be  busy  with 
other  matters.  The  Rev.  Needham  sat  on  his  own 
side  of  the  netting  and  didn't  know  just  what  he  ought 
to  do  or  say.  What  was  to  be  done,  what  said? 
Fortunately,  at  this  vaguely  uncomfortable  juncture, 


140          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

there  came  another,  and  this  time  a  really  important, 
interruption. 

Steps  were  heard  on  the  sparse  planking  which 
served  for  sidewalk  between  Beachcrest  and  the  road 
to  Crystalia. 

The  minister,  rising  quickly,  began  rubbing  his 
hands  together.  "It  must  be  Mr.  Barry,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Needham  appeared  at  the  cottage  door,  as 
though  bidden  by  some  psychic  intelligence.  "Are 
they  here?"  she  asked  excitedly. 

"I  can't  see  yet,  for  the  shrubbery.  But  I  think 
I  hear  Louise's  voice." 

"I  see  her,"  Miss  Whitcom  advised  them  from  her 
position  on  the  steps.  "And  what's  more,"  she 
added,  while  her  sister  hastily  patted  and  preened 
herself,  "I  see  him  also!" 

"Mr.  Barry?" 

"Um.  Rather  tall.  Not  exactly  bad  looking. 
.  .  .  But,"  she  added  darkly,  "they're  walking  ever 
so  far  apart!" 

What  did  she  mean  by  that?  The  Rev.  Needham 
glanced  a  little  nervously  at  his  wife  and  uncon- 
sciously began  humming  the  Invocation. 

They  arrived.  Lynndal  was  presented  to  Mrs. 
Needham,  then  to  Miss  Whitcom.  He  was,  of 
course,  very  warmly  greeted  by  the  minister. 

Louise  looked  troubled.  .  .  . 

The  Dutch  clock  in  the  cottage  living  room  set 
up  a  spiteful  striking:  one,  two,  three,  four  (each 
stroke  tart  and  inimical),  five,  six,  seven,  eight  (as 


THE   KISS  141 

though  from  the  very  depths  of  its  mecnanism  it 
would  cry  out  against  the  terrific  irony  of  life),  nine, 
ten.  .  .  . 

Lynndal  had  come  all  the  way  from  Arizona. 


*  '"1%  ^T  Y  gracious!"  cried  Miss  Whitcom  loudly 
j%/|  and  cordially,  "I've  been  in  Arizona!" 

.I?  JL  "You  have?" 

"Rather!  I  started  a  cactus  candy  business 
there  before  you  were.  .  .  ."  She  paused,  then 
wholeheartedly  laughed  a  defiance  at  the  very  notion 
of  grey  hairs.  "No,  I  won't  say  it.  I  won't  go  back 
so  far  as  that.  For  I  do  believe  you're  thirty,  sir,  if 
you're  a  day." 

"I'm  thirty-three,"  confessed  Barry,  looking  older, 
for  just  a  wistful  moment,  than  his  wont. 

"Well,  then,  when  you  were  a  youngster,  we'll  say, 
Marjory  Whitcom  was  working  fourteen  long  hours 
a  day  in  an  absurd  little  factory  on  the  fringe  of  the 
desert — slaving  like  all  possessed  to  make  a  go  of  it. 
The  idea  was  a  good  one." 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "for  we're  turning  out  wonder- 
ful cactus  candy  now." 

"I  know  it.  The  idea  was  corking.  Alas,  so 
many  of  my  ideas  have  been  corking!  But  every 
one  at  that  time  said  it  was  absurd  to  think  of  making 
candy  out  of  cactus,  and  no  one  would  believe  the  Tol- 
tec  legend  which  gave  us  our  receipt.  Ah,  yes — 
there's  many  a  slip.  .  .  ." 

142 


THE   KISS  143 

In  her  almost  brazen  way  she  cornered  the  new 
hero  of  Point  Betsey — actually  got  between  him  and 
the  others.  But  Miss  Whitcom  was  shrewder,  even, 
than  she  was  brazen.  You  couldn't  possibly  deceive 
her  when  she  had  her  reliable  antennae  out.  Had  she 
not  seen  the  landscape  between  them?  Distinctly 
seen  it?  Suspecting  the  imminence  of  a  rather  taut 
situation,  this  was  iher  way  of  clearing  the  air. 

Louise  did  not  altogether  fathom  her  aunt's  sub- 
tlety; but  she  was  grateful,  seizing  the  occasion  to  dis- 
appear. She  flew  up  to  her  room,  flung  herself  on 
the  bed,  and  nervously  cried  a  little. 

Lynndal  was  here.  The  long  anticipated  event 
had  actually  come  to  pass.  But  it  wasn't  the  kind  of 
event  she  had  conceived.  What  was  the  trouble? 
Was  he  not  as  she'  remembered  him?  Yes,  but  with 
phantoms  to  dictate  the  pattern,  how  she  had  idealized 
him  in  the  interim,  and  how  the  correspondence  had 
served  to  build  up  in  her  mind  a  being  of  romance 
and  fire  which  flesh  and  blood  could  never  hope  to 
challenge!  Well,  he  had  come,  this  stranger — with 
his  quiet  kindliness,  his  somehow  sensed  aura  of  pa- 
tience, where  she  looked  for  passion. 

Ghosts  of  the  past  played  havoc  with  her  heart,  and 
she  thought:  "Can  I  give  myself  to  this  man?  Can 
I  be  his,  all  his?  Can  I  be  his  for  ever  and  ever? 
Can  I  belong  henceforth  to  him  and  no  one  else?" 

The  mood  was  one  of  general  relaxation,  however 
— though  a  relaxation  she  had,  at  an  early  hour,  been 
far  enough  from  anticipating.  She  reviewed  the 


144          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

events  of  the  day  thus  far.  She  had  waked  at  flush 
of  dawn;  had  risen  full  of  a  gay  expectation,  and  had 
gone  out  to  meet  Jier  lover.  He  had  come;  she  had 
met  him  and  had  forestalled  his  kiss.  Now  he  was 
here.  Ten  o'clock.  And  her  heart  was  in  a  curious 
state  of  panic. 

But  Barry,  meanwhile,  still  down  on  the  screened 
porch,  was  finding  his  fiancee's  relative  an  intelligent 
and  really  engaging  person.  For  her  part,  it  had 
not  taken  long — with  the  cactus  candy  as  bait — to 
lure  him  into  enthusiasm  over  his  dry-farming.  She 
knew,  it  developed,  very  nearly  as  much  about  dry- 
farming  as  he  did,  and  Barry,  of  course,  knew  nearly 
as  much  about  it  as  there  was  to  know. 

The  Rev.  and  Mrs.  Needham,  having  gone  on  into 
the  cottage  living  room,  expecting  that  Barry,  momen- 
tarily arrested,  would  follow,  stood  a  moment  confer- 
ring in  discreet  tones. 

"What  do  you  think  of  him,  Anna?" 

"He  seems  like  a  real  nice  sort,  Alf.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"I've  always  admired  Barry,"  he  said  proudly,  a 
bit  complaisantly.  "During  several  years  of  busi- 
ness connection.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Alf  he's  certainly  looked  after  our  interests 
out  West." 

Sly  little  wrinkles  of  worry  just  etched  themselves 
across  the  Rev.  Needham's  florid  brow.  Those  in- 
terests in  the  West — heaven  knew  how  much  they 
meant!  They  kept  the  wolf  from  the  door — a  mild 


THE   KISS  145 

wolf,  of  course,  and  one  that  wouldn't  really  bite ;  but 
still  a  wolf.  Yes,  they  sustained  the  Needham  es- 
tablishment in  a  kind  of  grand  way — certainly  in  a 
way  which  wouldn't  be  possible  on  ministerial  salary 
alone.  And  it  was  Lynndal  Barry's  initiative  which 
had  built  the  dam:  the  dam  generated  electricity  and 
paid  dividends.  Yes,  they  certainly  owed  a  great 
deal — though  of  course  it  was  all  on  a  sufficiently 
regular  business  basis — to  Mr.  Barry. 

"He's  a  fine,  fine  man — one  of  God's  own  noble- 
men, Anna.  It's  only  to  be  hoped .  . . . " 

"Hoped,  Alf  ?"  Anna  was  seldom  able  to  supply, 
off-hand,  what  one  groped  for  in  one's  perplexity. 

"That  Louise,"  he  began  a  little  impatiently,  " — 
that  Louise.  .  .  ." 

"Why,  where  is  she?"  asked  Mrs.  Needham,  look- 
ing suddenly  around. 

Ah,  where  indeed? 

The  Rev.  Needham  experienced  an  uncomfortable 
shivery  sensation  in  his  stomach.  Still,  there  was  no 
reason  other  than  what  Marjory  had  said  about  their 
walking  rather  far  apart.  What  did  she  mean? 
What  did  she  ever  mean?  Ah,  Marjory.  .  .  . 

They  looked  at  her.  Yes,  she  had  certainly  cap- 
tured Mr.  Barry.  Poor  Marjory  had  a  way.  .  ,  . 

"I  wonder,"  sighed  the  Rev.  Needham — a  little 
ponderously  to  conceal  an  inner  breathlessness.  "I 
wonder.  .  .  ." 

"What,  Alf?" 

He  shook  himself,  looking  dimly  horrified.    "Noth- 


146         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

ing,  Anna."  What  he  wondered  was  whether  his 
wife's  sister  had  ever  fallen  by  the  wayside.  .  .  . 

"Alf,"  whispered  Anna,  on  the  point  of  slipping 
upstairs  to  make  sure  for  the  last  time  that  the  visitor's 
room  was  quite  ready,  "how  did  you  two  get  on?" 

"I  can't  say  very  well,"  he  answered  with  an  inflec- 
tion of  nervous  vagueness.  "It  was  almost  all  about 
a  Bishop  on  the  train.  Anna,  I'm — I'm  afraid  it's  no 
use.  You  know  there  are  people  in  the  world  that 
seem  destined  never  to  understand  each  other.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Alf — she's  so  good-hearted!" 

"That  may  be  true,"  he  replied,  "but  in  Tahula- 
maji  I'm  beginning  to  be  convinced  she  led — that  she 
may  almost  have  led.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Alf!" 

"And  she'd  forgotten.  .  .  ." 

"What?" 

He  spoke  with  troubled  petulance:  "My  denom- 
ination!" 

When  Miss  Whitcom  learned,  as  she  did  directly, 
that  Mr.  O'Donnell  was  at  the  Elmbrook  Inn,  down  at 
Crystalia,  she  emphatically  changed  colour.  How- 
ever much  she  might  like  to  deny  it,  a  fact  was  a  fact. 
And  in  addition  to  that,  her  talk,  for  at  least  ten  sec- 
onds, was  utterly  incoherent.  She  simply  mixed  the 
words  all  up,  and  nothing  she  said  made  any  sense  at 
all.  Of  course  she  quickly  regained  her  equilibrium 
and  made  a  playful  remark  about  "having  had  all 
that  letterwriting  trouble  for  nothing."  But  it  must 


THE   KISS  147 

very  plainly  and  unequivocally  be  set  down  that 
throughout  those  first  ten  seconds  her  colour  was  high, 
her  coherence  at  zero. 

The  ensuing  hour  at  Beachcrest  passed  quietly,  de- 
spite the  fact  that  every  one  seemed  moving  at  a  high 
rate  of  tension. 

Mrs.  Needham  spent  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
time  in  conference  with  Eliza.  The  advent  of  the 
grocer's  boy  occasioned  the  usual  excitement.  It 
must  be  understood  that  these  arrivals  mean  ever  so 
much  more  in  the  wilderness  than  they  do  in  town. 
In  town,  supposing  there  is  a  certain  item  missing, 
you  merely  step  to  the  phone  and  give  your  tradesman 
polite  hell.  But  on  Point  Betsey  there  were  no  such 
resources  possible.  They  did  not  even  have  electric 
lights,  and  it  was  merely  possible,  when  things  went 
wrong,  to  explode  to  the  boy  (which  never  did  any 
good),  or  to  explode  in  a  grander  yet  still  quite  as 
futile  way  to  the  world  at  large.  Fortunately,  this 
morning  (the  morning  of  this  most  momentous  day!) 
the  supplies  arrived  in  relatively  excellent  condition. 

The  Rev.  Needham,  pacing  up  and  down  alone  in 
the  living  room,  paused  nervously  now  and  then  to 
heed  the  muffled  sounds  issuing  from  sundry  quarters 
of  the  cottage:  the  squeaky  opening  or  closing  of 
doors,  which  might  somehow  have  a  meaning  in  his 
life;  the  shuffle  of  steps  (maybe  portentous)  across 
the  sanded  boards.  .  .  .  And  most  especially  he 
pricked  his  ears — those  small,  alert  ears  of  his,  that 
were  perpetually  prepared  for  the  worst — when  the 


148          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

things  came  from  the  store.  It  would  be  horrible, 
with  guests  in  the  house,  to  have  a  short  supply;  al- 
though of  course  here  again,  as  in  the  case  of  the  pan- 
cakes, he  was  concerning  himself  outside  his  own  de- 
partment. But  even  if  these  responsibilities  of  the 
kitchen  didn't  really  rest  on  his  shoulders,  neverthe- 
less the  Rev.  Needham  listened  as  each  item  was  pro- 
nounced, upon  its  emergence  from  the  huge  market 
basket. 

Coffee,  cheese,  eggs — eggs,  ah!  we  must  look  at 
them.  One  broken?  Well,  we  should  be  thankful 
for  eleven  sound  ones.  Housekeeping,  especially 
housekeeping  in  a  cottage,  develops  a  wonderful  and 
luminous  patience.  This  patience — like  mercy,  an 
attribute  of  God  Himself — may  even  sometimes  lead 
one  to  the  tracing  of  quite  Biblical  applications. 
There  were  twelve  disciples  in  the  beginning,  yet  one 
of  them,  in  the  stress  of  events.  .  .  . 

Bread,  celery,  carrots,  frosted  cookies.  Where 
was  the  roast?  The  Rev.  Needham's  heart  stood 
still.  He  halted,  petrified  with  horrid  fear.  The 
roast,  the  roast!  Thank  God  they  found  it,  down  at 
the  bottom  of  the  basket.  Oh,  thank  God!  The  pac- 
ing was  resumed. 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down.  One  would  have  per- 
ceived here,  so  far  as  externals  went,  merely  a  quiet, 
middle-aged  clergyman  strolling  in  his  home.  Yet 
in  the  cottage  living  room  this  clergyman  and  this 
angry  Dutch  clock  together  synthesized  contemporary 
events.  "Trouble,  trouble,  trouble,  trouble!"  ticked 


THE   KISS  149 

the  clock  sharply.  And  each  step  in  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham's  pacing  seemed  a  question.  As  the  years  crept 
by,  broadening  vision  seemed  not  very  materially  to 
be  quieting  the  good  man's  fidgets  and  perturbations. 
It  seemed  merely  to  give  them  longer  tether;  for  his 
unsettled  state  was  organic.  It  would  never  be  really 
otherwise.  Religion,  science,  feeling,  thought,  rea- 
son— all  alike,  in  their  several  directions,  seemed  im- 
potent to  anchor  him.  The  sea  was  too  deep.  He 
might,  of  course,  call  himself  anchored ;  but  alas,  the 
cruel  little  demons  of  doubt  and  quandary  were 
bound,  sooner  or  later,  to  insinuate  themselves  back 
into  his  heart.  His  walk  was  groping,  indecisive. 
Each  step  was  a  question:  "Whither?  Why?  How 
long?  What  is  best?  What  is  best?  What  is 
best?" 

Miss  Whitcom  stood  meditatively  before  the  some- 
what wavy  mirror  in  her  little  room.  She  was  pon- 
dering past,  present,  future.  Also,  she  was  acknowl- 
edging that  grey  hairs  had  perceptibly  multiplied 
since  O'Donnell  last  saw  her.  Would  he  notice 
them?  And  if  he  did?  Well?  She  contemplated 
herself  and  her  life  in  the  wavy  mirror. 

Beyond  his  own  three-quarters  partition,  Barry 
happened  at  the  same  moment  to  be  standing  before 
a  mirror  also — as  men  do  sometimes,  who  would  be 
sure  (to  deny  the  charge  were  it  publicly  preferred 
against  them.  Yes,  he  was  getting  along.  Not  in 


150          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

any  sense  old,  of  course.  To  some  a  man  of  thirty- 
three  seems  still  a  young  man.  He  tried  to  look  at 
it  that  way.  Still  thirty-three  was  thirty-three.  And 
Louise.  .  .  .  She  was  young,  so  young — and  fresh, 
and  sweet,  and  adorable.  .  .  .  His  quiet  eyes  misted 
a  moment  as  he  thought  of  her.  And  for  her  sake  he 
could  wish  himself  one  of  those  fabulous  princes  we 
read  of  in  childhood.  Ah,  yes — a  kind  of  prince — 
just  for  her  sake!  He  regarded  himself  in  the  glass 
solemnly  and  critically.  There  were  undeniable 
lines  of  salient  maturity  in  his  face;  and  princes,  that 
was  sure,  never  had  any  lines  at  all.  So  young,  so 
sweet,  so  charming!  He  sighed  and  went  about  un- 
packing his  things.  That  he  should  win  her — that 
he  should  win  this  dear  girl  for  his  wife.  .  .  .  ! 

"I  have  done  nothing  to  deserve  such  happiness  as 
this,"  he  said  softly.  "In  all  my  life,  nothing,  noth- 
ing!" 

And  then  he  took  a  ring  out  of  a  little  box  and 
gazed  at  it.  And  when  he  had  gazed  at  it  a  long  time, 
he  put  it  back  in  the  box  and  put  the  box  in  his 
pocket. 

Louise,  in  the  seclusion  of  her  room,  no  longer 
wept,  though  she  still  lay  on  the  bed.  Tears  had  re- 
lieved the  strain,  and  her  heart  was  not  so  burdened. 
Slowly  reviving,  she  lay  in  a  sort  of  half  pleasant 
lethargy — not  thinking,  exactly,  nor  even  actually 
feeling,  for  the  moment.  Tears  are  like  suave  drugs: 
under  their  mystic  persuasion  life  may  assume  the 


THE  KISS  151 

lovely  softness  of  a  mirage.  But  the  softness  is  fleet- 
ing. It  rests  and  it  is  gone.  It  is  like  false  dawn. 
Or  it  is  like  a  dream  of  light  when  the  night  is  black- 
est. 


4 

MARJORY  and  Anna  met  outside  the  cottage 
in  a  little  rustic  bower  where  there  was  a 
hammock,  and  where  the  Rev.  Needham 
had  constructed,  with  his  own  hands,  a  clumsy  and 
rather  unstable  rustic  bench.  It  had  taken  him 
nearly  all  one  summer  to  build  this  bench.  The 
clergyman  had  perspired  a  great  deal,  and  gone  about 
with  a  dogged  look.  They  were  all  mightily  relieved 
when  the  task  was.  at  last  completed.  It  seemed  to 
simplify  life. 

Mrs.  Needham  sat  on  the  rustic  bench  now,  fan- 
ning herself  with  her  white  apron.  Her  face  was 
flushed,  her  manner  a  little  wild.  She  and  Eliza  had 
reached  the  agonizing  conclusion  that  the  raisins,  in- 
dispensable to  the  Indian  meal  pudding,  hadn't  come, 
only  to  discover  the  little  package  lying  out  on  the 
path  where  it  had  slipped  from  the  grocer  boy's  bas- 
ket. The  pudding  was  saved,  but  what  a  shock  to 
one's  whole  system! 

"Well,  Anna,"  said  her  sister,  dropping  fearlessly 
into  the  hammock.  None  but  newcomers  possessed 
that  sublime  faith  in  hammock  ropes! 

"I  declare!"  returned  Anna.  "Whew!" — her 
apron  moving  rapidly — "So  warm!" 

152 


THE   KISS  153 

"Well,  have  you  been  charging  up  hillsides,  or  rac- 
ing Alfred  on  the  beach?" 

Mrs.  Needham  looked  a  little  startled  at  the  ir- 
reverent allusion.  "Oh,  no,  only  planning  with  Eliza, 
and—" 

"You  find  Eliza  a  treasure,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  she's  very  capable." 

"I  suppose  a  maid's  capability  must  take  on  a 
special  lustre  in  the  wilderness.  Don't  you  some- 
times fancy  you  see  a  faint  halo  over  Eliza's  head? 
You  people  in  this  luxurious  country  have  become  so 
dependent,  I  don't  know  what  you  would  do  if  there 
should  ever  be  a  general  strike!" 

"No,  I  don't  know  either,"  admitted  Mrs.  Needham. 
"Eliza  talks  of  going  back.  It's  so  quiet  up  here — 
girls  don't  like  it.  We've  raised  her  twice.  I  really 
don't  know  what's  going  to  be  the  end  of  the  help 
question.  And  wages  .  ,  .  !"  She  raised  her  eyes 
to  the  heavens. 

A  short  silence  followed.  Marjory  swung  gently 
back  and  forth  in  the  hammock.  She  might  have  been 
pronounced  an  eloquent  embodiment  of  perfect 
calm;  and  yet  her  heart  was  curiously  bumping 
about. 

"Anna,"  she  asked  slowly,  "do  you  remember  Bar- 
rett O'Donnell?" 

Her  sister  looked  at  her  queerly  a  moment. 
"Some  friend,  Marjory?"  For  Marjory  had  had,  in 
her  time,  so  many  friends! 

"You'll  remember  him,   I  know,  when  you   see 


154         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

him,"  she  nodded.  And  then  she  continued:  "He's 
here." 

"Here?" 

"Well,"  her  sister  laughed,  "not  quite  on  the 
Point,  but  at  Crystalia." 

"Really?" 

"Dear  old  Barrett!     I  wonder.  .  .  ." 

"Marjory,"  the  other  asked,  with  an  odd  effect  of 
conscious  shrewdness,  "is  he — is  Mr.  O'Donnell  the 
man?" 

"For  goodness  sake,  what  man,  Anna?" 

"Why,  I  always  felt,"  her  sister  replied  quaintly, 
"that  there  was  one  man,  all  through  the  years — 'way 
from  the  time  we  stopped  telling  each  other  se- 
crets. .  .  ." 

Marjory  laughed  loudly.  But  she  seemed  touched 
also.  "It's  a  long  time,  isn't  it,  since  we  stopped  tell- 
ing secrets?" 

And  Anna  sighed,  for  perhaps  her  retrospect,  if 
less  exciting,  was  even  longer  than  her  sister's. 

The  two  sat,  after  that,  a  little  while  without  speak- 
ing. Then  Anna's  large  round  face  assumed  a  truly 
brilliant  expression. 

"Marjory!"  she  cried. 

"Well?" 

"You  say  he's  here?" 

"Um,  though  it  seems  impossible  to  credit  such  a 
thing.  Perhaps  it's  all  a  myth.  He's  at  the  Elm- 
brook  Inn.  Is  there,"  she  whimsically  faltered, 
" — is  there  honestly  such  a  place?" 


THE   KISS  155 

"Marjie,  I  mean  to  have  him  up!" 

"Anna — you  mean  here?" 

"For  luncheon!" 

In  their  excitement  the  two  ladies  were  really  all 
but  shouting  at  each  other.  They  realized  it  and 
smiled;  sank  to  quieter  attitudes  both  of  bearing 
and  speech. 

"You  think  he'd  come,  don't  you  Marjie?" 

"Come?  Rather!  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  travel- 
ling man  turning  down  a  chance  at  home  cooking?" 

"Then  I'm  going  to  send  right  over  and  invite 
him.  It  will  be  real  fun!  I  suppose,"  she  em- 
broidered, with  as  great  an  effect  of  roguery  as  she 
could  enlist,  "I  suppose  he's  followed  you  up!" 

"Obviously!"  her  sister  replied,  not  apparently 
flustered  in  the  least. 

"Think  of  it!" 

"Yes,  it  is  rather  dreadful,  isn't  it — especially  at 
our  ages!" 

"I  think  it's  kind  of  splendid,  Marjie." 

"Er — Alfred  never  was  much  of  what  you'd  call  the 
*following'  kind,  was  he  Anna?" 

"Well,  I  can't  seem  to  remember.  It  seems  to  me 
once.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  they'll  nearly  always  follow  once.  It's  keep- 
ing right  on  that  seems  hard.  Of  course,"  she  added, 
"marriage  puts  a  stop  to  all  that  sort  of  thing,  doesn't 
it?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose,  in  a  sense.  .  .  ." 

"Anna,  there's  just  one  way  to  keep  'em  going: 


156         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

don't  marry!     Well,  you  see  for  yourself  how  it  is." 

"Yes,  but  it  seems  kind  of  dreadful  to  put  it  that 
way,  don't  it?" 

"Dreadful?  Oh,  yes.  Yes,  of  course  it's  dread- 
ful. Still,  it's  rather  nice." 

"M-m-m,"  murmured  Anna. 

The  philosophy  of  man's  pursuit  proved  baffling. 
Here  were  two  sisters  who  knew  its  bitters  and  its 
sweets.  Yet  it  is  doubtful  if  for  either  the  bitter  was 
all  bitter  and  the  sweet  all  sweet.  .  ,  . 

Hilda  and  Leslie  came  back  from  the  tennis  tour- 
nament. They  were  hot  and  in  high  spirits. 

"Who  won?"  asked  Mrs.  Needham  cheerily. 

"We  did,  mama!" 

"Three  cheers!"  cried  Miss  Whitcom,  sitting  up 
enthusiastically  in  the  hammock. 

"You  never  saw  such  excitement!"  cried  Hilda. 
"Most  of  the  games  were  deuce  for  both  sides  before 
anybody  got  it!" 

"Very  close,"  was  Leslie's  simpler  version. 

Louise  crept  to  her  window  and  peered  down  into 
the  bower.  Hilda  and  Leslie  were  holding  one 
racquet  between  them.  It  was  his  racquet  and  she 
was  twining  her  fingers  playfully  in  and  out  among 
the  strings.  A  feeling  of  suffocation  closed  sud- 
denly upon  Louise's  throat. 

And  just  then  Barry  walked  into  the  bower.  He 
had  been  exploring  the  delightful  wild  endroit,  and 


THE   KISS  157 

hoping  that  Louise  might  suddenly  appear,  with 
some  lovely  tangle  of  wood  and  vine  for  background. 
For  he  hailed  from  a  country  where  trees  are  scarce, 
and  one's  backgrounds  from  childhood  are  sand, 
desert  sand.  His  life  had  grown  suddenly  so 
rich.  .  .  . 

Barry  was  welcomed.  Mrs.  Needham  made  room 
for  him  beside  her  on  the  rustic  bench.  She  looked 
at  him  a  little  shyly,  but  with  the  ecstatic  admiration, 
also,  of  one  who  would  say:  "This  is  the  man  we're 
giving  our  daughter  to!" 

But  where  was  Louise?  Her  mother  had  scarcely 
seen  her  since  the  return  from  Frankfort.  How 
strangely  she  was  behaving. 

"I  believe  she's  lying  down,"  said  Barry,  his  tone 
warm  with  shielding  tenderness  and  apology.  "She 
got  up  so  early  to  meet  the  boat.  It  was  wonderful 
of  her!" 

The  two  young  champions  were  giving  Aunt 
Marjie  a  fuller  account  of  the  tennis  combat.  They 
still  held  the  racquet  between  them.  Both  were 
flushed,  keen-eyed,  ridiculously  happy.  How  soon 
he  had  recovered!  Louise,  up  at  her  window, 
remembered  Leslie's  mood  at  an  earlier  hour. 
At  dawn  she  might  have  had  him.  Now  it  was  too 
late.  "Oh,  the  injustice  of  it!"  she  cried,  her  hands 
crushing  her  breast.  But  as  she  looked  down  into 
his  glowing  face,  she  realized  a  swift  sense  of  humil- 
iation. "He  didn't  care  after  all,"  she  told  herself. 


158          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

Hilda  and  Leslie  evinced  great  willingness  to 
convey  the  luncheon  invitation  to  Barrett  O'Donnell. 
Leslie,  of  course,  volunteered  to  go,  and  Hilda,  of 
course,  said  she  simply  would  go  too.  So  off  they 
raced,  still  holding  the  tennis  racquet  between  them. 

Louise  watched  them  go.  In  her  hand  was  the 
book  she  had  bought  in  Frankfort.  Suddenly,  under 
stress  of  very  violent  emotion,  she  pressed  it  against 
her  cheek. 

Barry  watched  them  out  of  sight.  He  was  think- 
ing of  Louise.  She  had  not  yet  kissed  him.  In  his 
pocket  was  a  little  box,  and  inside  the  little  box  was 
a  ring. 

Marjory  also  watched  them  go.  She  sighed  even 
as  she  smiled:  "Another  young  thing,  just  starting 
out — boy-crazy.  So  futile."  But  she  smiled  more 
radiantly  in  spite  of  herself,  and  the  other  valuation 
would  slip  in:  "So  sweet!" 


THE  portieres  between  the  dining  room  and 
the  living  room  at  Beachcrest  are  carefully 
drawn.     The  whole  company  is  assembled, 
waiting.     It  is  one  o'clock,  the  vitriolic  Dutch  time- 
piece on  the  mantel  having  just  snapped  out  the 
hungry  truth. 

The  clock,  with  its  quenchless  petulance  and  spite, 
is  lord  of  the  mantel.  And  what  an  entourage  of 
vassels!  Close  up  against  it  huddles  a  bottle/  of 
peroxide.  Then,  although  disposed  in  some  sem- 
blance of  neatness  and  order,  one  discovers  a  fish 
stringer,  an  old  pipe,  several  empty  cigar  boxes, 
heaps  of  old  letters,  a  book  opened  and  turned  down, 
a  number  of  rumpled  handkerchiefs,  some  camera 
films,  a  bottle  of  red  ink.  There  are  two  odd  candle- 
sticks, without  any  candles,  a  metal  dish  containing 
a  vast  miscellany  of  pins,  collar  buttons,  rubber 
bands,  and  who  knows  what?  Lo,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  clock  loiter  a  curious  pebble,  a  laundry  list, 
a  box  of  candy,  some  loose  change  and  a  little  paper 
money,  a  pocket  flash  which  no  longer  works,  matches 
in  a  broken  crockery  receiver,  perfumes,  sandpaper, 
a  writing  tablet  and  some  yellowing  envelopes.  And 
one  glimpses,  emerging  from  chaos,  the  frayed 
handle  of  a  whisk  broom  which  has  seen  immeasur- 

159 


160         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

ably  better  days.  Some  woven  grass  baskets,  too. 
Anything  else?  Yes,  yonder  is  a  box  of  tacks,  and 
beside  it  a  little  pile  of  the  Rev.  Needham's  socks, 
nicely  darned.  Also,  strewn  here  and  there,  are  var- 
ious rail  and  steamship  timetables,  most  of  which 
bear  the  dates  of  seasons  long  gone  by.  An  im- 
mortal miscellany!  Oh,  and  one  must  not  miss  that 
curious  creature  squatting  in  a  dim  corner  and  peer- 
ing ever  alertly  around  with  his  little  beady  eyes:  yes, 
a  sad  and  much  dilapidated  Teddy  Bear. 

One  o'clock! 

There  is  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  every  pair  of 
eyes — even  those  of  the  Rev.  Needham,  or  perhaps 
especially  those — to  direct  from  time  to  time  a 
wholly  unconscious  glance  of  hope  mingled  with 
mild  anxiety  toward  the  tantalizing  green  portieres, 
beyond  which  Eliza  moves  about  with  maddening 
deliberateness. 

One  o'clock,  snapping  like  a  dry  forest  twig  under 
the  tread  of  some  wild  creature.  Then  an  angry 
tick-lock,  tick-lock.  On  and  on  and  on,  forever. 

Out  in  the  kitchen  Eliza  was  prodding  the  kettle  of 
soup.  She  was  dreamily  thinking  of  the  porter  at 
the  hotel  in  Beulah.  Would  he  get  over  this  even- 
ing? Oh,  love  is  so  wonderful!  Eliza  was  quite 
gauche  and  unlettered;  yet  love,  for  her,  was  a  thing 
which  could  rouse  brilliant  orgies  of  the  imagination. 
Love,  even  for  her,  was  something  which  transcended 
all  the  ineffable  promised  glories  of  Heaven  itself. 
Yes,  it  was  better  than  the  streets  of  pearl  and  the 


THE  KISS  161 

gates  of  amethyst — or  was  it  the  gates  of  pearl  and 
the  streets  of  gold? 

When  the  soup  was  ready  she  served  it,  then  thrust 
asunder  the  portieres.  "Lunch  is  served,  ma'am," 
she  announced,  with  a  degree  of  majesty  which  would 
simply  have  terrorized  the  Beulah  porter. 

They  responded  promptly — not  exactly  crowding 
ahead  of  each  other,  but  stepping  along  with  ir- 
reproachable briskness.  Appetites  beside  the  sea 
are  like  munition  factories  in  wartime. 

There  was  a  cheerful  rattle  of  chairs  and  much 
scraping  of  feet  under  the  table.  Then  a  solemn 
silence,  while  the  minister  prayed.  The  Rev.  Need- 
ham,  of  course,  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Mrs. 
Needham  sat  opposite  him  at  the  foot.  To  the  min- 
ister's right  was  Miss  Whitcom,  who  found  herself 
delightfully  sandwiched  in  between  a  knight  of  the 
church  and  a  knight  of  the  grip.  Needless  to  say, 
the  latter  was  Mr.  O'Donnell,  looking  his  very  nicest 
and  smelling  of  soap  like  the  Brushwood  Boy.  Next 
came  Hilda,  who  flashed  quite  dazzling  smiles  across 
at  her  sister,  smiles  more  subdued  and  shy  at  Mr. 
Barry.  There  was  a  flurry  of  conversation  at  first, 
while  the  paper  napkins  were  being  opened  up  and 
disposed  where  they  would  afford  the  most  protection 
— not  a  great  deal,  it  is  to  be  feared,  at  best.  And 
then — well,  then  there  was  almost  no  talk  at  all  until 
after  the  soup.  As  they  say  in  theatre  programs: 
"The  curtain  will  be  lowered  one  minute  to  denote 
a  lapse  of  time." 


162         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

Miss  Whitcom  and  Mr.  O'Donnell  had  employed 
quite  as  little  formality  in  their  meeting  as  the  latter 
had  prophesied  during  the  trip  up  to  Beulah.  She 
hadn't,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  referred  to  the  wall  paper 
in  the  throne  room  of  the  Queen's  palace.  Instead 
she  had  remarked:  "You  know,  it's  curious.  I  was 
just  dropping  you  a  note.  Yes.  I  wanted,  for  one 
thing,  to  express  my  regret  over  the  unlikelihood  of 
our  seeing  each  other  this  trip,  since  you  see  I'm  go- 
ing right  back.  Jolly  you  should  have  happened 
along  like  this — and  a  postage  stamp  saved  into  the 
bargain!"  While  he,  swallowing  his  disappointment 
over  the  prospect  of  her  immediate  return  to  Tabula- 
maji,  had  replied  in  like  spirit:  "How  fortunate — 
about  the  stamp,  I  mean.  It  has  been  a  long  while, 
hasn't  it?" 

And  now  they  were  sitting  side  by  side  at  the  table, 
rather  monopolizing  the  conversation — having  a 
beautiful  time,  yet  never  quite  descending  from  that 
characteristic,  mutually  assumed  tone  of  banter. 

"I  suppose  you're  still  travelling,  Mr.  O'Donnell?" 

"Still  travelling,  Miss  Whitcom." 

"Same  firm?" 

"Same  firm." 

It  had  been  the  same  firm  almost  as  far  back  as 
memory  went.  It  always  would  be  the  same  firm. 
There  was  little  of  change  and  perhaps  nothing  at  all 
of  adventure  in  this  destiny.  But  there  was  a  rather 
substantial  balance  in  the  bank,  which,  after  all,  is 
a  kind  of  adventure,  too. 


THE   KISS  163 

"Babbit  &  Babbit,"  she  mused. 

"Members  of  the  0.  A.  of  C." 

"True.  I'm  afraid  I'd  forgotten  the  letters  at  the 
end." 

He  nibbled  at  his  celery.  "And  you,  Miss  Whit- 
corn?" 

"Still  mostly  travelling,  Mr.  O'Donnell." 

"Same  firm?" 

"Oh,  dear  no!  There  the  interesting  parallel 
must  cease.  One  has  to  be  progressive,  you  know. 
One  must  ^  keep  abreast  of  the  times."  She  gave  her 
brother-in-law  a  dreadful,  broad  wink.  "What  was 
I  doing  last?" 

O'Donnell  grinned.  "I  believe — wasn't  it  pilot- 
ing tourists  through  Europe?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  it's  been  as  long  as  that 
since  I've  seen  you?" 

"As  I  recollect  it — something  of  the  sort." 

"Yes,  yes.  So  it  was.  But  that  was  before  the 
war.  You  knew,  of  course,  that  I'd  gone  to  Tahula- 
maji." 

"You  answered  several  of  my  letters,"  he  reminded 
her  sweetly. 

"Ah,  of  course  I  did.  And  you  should  have  felt 
highly  flattered,  for  I  may  say  I  made  no  point  of 
keeping  up  any  sort  of  correspondence  at  all  down 
there." 

"I  should  say  not!"  put  in  Mrs.  Needham,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Oh,  yes.     I  was  flattered — flattered  even  if  they 


164         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

were  only  postcards.  But  I  haven't  yet  got  it  straight 
what  you  were  doing  in  Tahulamaji.  Was  it  the 
same  sort  of  thing  there?" 

"What!  Piloting  tourists?"  She  had  a  hearty 
laugh.  Her  brother-in-law  started  a  little.  One  of, 
Marjory's  hearty  laughs  was  always  like  an  unex- 
pected slap  on  the  back. 

"You  mean  there  aren't  any  sights  to  show?" 
asked  O'Donnell  meekly.  "I  don't  even  know 
where  Tahulamaji  is,  and  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea 
what  it's  like." 

"Oh,"  she  laughed,  "there  are  plenty  of  sights. 
It's  ever  so  much  better  than  Europe!" 

"Then  why  not  pilot?" 

"There  aren't  any  tourists." 

"Not  any  at  all?" 

"None,  at  least,  who  require  piloting.  You  see, 
we  haven't  been  sufficiently  exploited  yet.  For  some 
reason  we've  escaped  so  far,  though  I  expect  any  day 
to  hear  that  we've  been  discovered.  Those  who 
come  are  bent  on  plain,  stern  business.  Most  of 
them  get  away  again  the  next  day.  Those  who  don't 
get  off  the  next  day,  or  at  most  the  day  after  that, 
you  may  depend  upon  it  have  come  to  stay — like  me." 

"So  you  are  quite  determined  to  go  back  again." 

"Quite.     Why  not?" 

They  gazed  quietly  at  each  other  a  moment,  while 
the  minister  began  dispensing  dried-beef -in-cream-on 
toast — a  special  Beachcrest  dish;  French-fried  pota- 
toes. Mrs.  Needham  watched  with  quaking  heart 


THE   KISS  165 

until  it  was  patent  there  would  be  enough  to  go  round. 
Then  she  began  pouring  the  tea. 

There  was  always,  at  any 'rate,  plenty  of  tea.  But 
Miss  Whitcom  nearly  occasioned  a  panic  by  asking 
for  lemon.  The  rest  took  cream,  if  for  no  better 
reason  than  that  it  was  right  there  on  the  table. 
The  demand  had  been,  like  everything  Miss  Whitcom 
did,  unpremeditated,  and  was  immediately  with- 
drawn. She  tossed  her  head  and  laughed.  Wasn't 
it  absurd  to  ask  for  lemon  in  the  wilderness?  But 
Anna  Needham  rose  to  the  occasion.  It  was  a  crisis. 

She  tinkled  the  bell  in  a  breathless  yet  resolute 
way;  she  so  wanted  to  impress  her  sister  as  being  a 
competent  housekeeper.  It  amounted  almost  to  a 
passion.  Perhaps  living  so  long  with  Alfred  had 
rather  tended  to  weaken  belief  in  her  own  abilities. 

Eliza  was  gone  a  good  while.  But  she  trium- 
phantly returned  with  the  lemon.  Mr.  O'Donnell 
looked  at  Miss  Whitcom's  tea  a  little  wistfully.  He 
had  already  taken  cream.  Possibly  he  preferred 
lemon  too.  But  it  requires  real  genius  to  ask  for 
what  one  doesn't  see  before  one  in  this  law-of -least- 
resistance  world. 

This  slight  tension  removed,  the  Rev.  Needham 
resumed  a  quiet  conversation  with  Barry  about  the 
affairs  in  the  West.  Everything,  it  seemed,  was  go- 
ing finely.  It  began  to  look  as  though  they  might  all 
grow  positively  rich  off  the  desert!  And  it  was  owing 
to  Barry — entirely  to  him.  Well,  Barry  was  a  fine 
young  man — so  completely  satisfactory.  If  the  Need- 


166         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

hams  had  had  a  son,  Alfred  would  have  wished  him 
to  be  like  Barry.  Sure,  patient,  untiring,  generous — 
generous  to  a  fault,  yet  with  such  solid  faculties  for 
business!  And  now,  here  he  was,  about  to  step  right 
into  the  family.  It  was  too  good  to  be  true.  Yes, 
much  too  good.  The  Rev.  Needham  swelled  with 
pride  and  beamed  with  affection.  He  beamed  on 
Barry,  and  never  noted  how  his  daughter  sat  there  be- 
side this  paragon,  eating  little,  talking  almost  not  at 
all.... 

Hilda  was  another  member  of  the  party  who  talked 
little.  Her  deportment,  however,  was  quite  different. 
Her  cheeks  were  highly  coloured,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled.  Aunt  Marjie,  who  seemed  somehow  never 
too  engrossed  in  anything  to  give  good  heed  to  every- 
thing else,  looked  curiously  from  Hilda  to  Louise,  to 
Barry,  from  Barry  on  to  her  brother-in-law.  Then 
she  looked  at  Hilda  again,  recalling  Leslie,  and 
smiled.  She  looked  at  Louise  again,  also,  then  at 
Barry,  and  her  expression  grew  more  serious.  She 
looked  at  Louise  a  third  time,  still  with  Leslie  in  the 
back  of  her  mind,  and  thought  of  the  forgotten  stove 
burners .... 

Why  was  it,  she  asked  herself,  that  men  had  to 
make  such  baffling  differences  in  women's  lives? 


AFTER  luncheon  the  company  broke  up.  The 
Rev.  Needham  announced,  just  a  little  stiffly 
(for  he  felt  the  upsetting  gaze  of  his  sister- 
in-law)  that  it  was  customary  at  Beachcrest  to  spend 
a  quiet  hour,  at  this  point  of  the  day's  span,  napping. 
He  wanted  to  create  an  easy  home  atmosphere,  and 
the  most  effective  way  seemed  to  be  to  impress  out- 
siders with  the  fact  that  everything  was  really  running 
along  just  as  though  none  but  the  immediate 
family  was  present. 

Miss  Whitcom  yawned  at  once.  "Good  gracious!" 
she  exclaimed.  "I'm  horribly  sleepy.  Never  would 
have  dreamed  what  was  the  matter  with  me,  Alfred, 
if  you  hadn't  come  to  the  rescue.  I  am  grateful!" 

And  then — and  then  the  Rev.  Needham  did  a  tre- 
mendous, a  revolutionary,  a  gigantic  and  unforget- 
table thing.  He  simply  overwhelmed  himself  and 
everybody  else  by  making  an  almost  low  bow! 

Mrs.  Needham  uttered  a  tiny  gasp — she  really 
couldn't  help  it.  What  had  gotten  into  Alfred? 
Then  she  laughed,  a  little  too  shrilly,  as  by  way  of 
heralding  to  all  the  Point  the  glorious,  glad  tiding^ 
that  there  was,  at  last,  a  genuine,  wholesome,  jolly 

home  atmosphere  established. 

167 


168         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

Yes,  the  bow  was  inspired.     There  was  no  other 
way  of  looking  at  it.     The  bow  was  an  inspired  bow. 

And  what  had  come  over  the  Rev.  Needham  was 
this:  He  had  suddenly,  in  a  sort  of  buoyant  flare, 
determined  that  Marjory's  manner  would  have  to  be 
played  up  to!  It  was  simply  ridiculous — scandalous 
— to  allow  himself  to  be  disturbed  and  even  secretly 
harassed  by  his  wife's  own  sister.  Yes,  it  was  little 
short  of  a  scandal!  And  now,  rather  tardily,  it  may 
be  admitted,  the  Rev.  Needham  had  attained  salva- 
tion. It  was  simply  to  make  a  low  bow.  How 
clever — and  how  exquisitely  subtle!  He  laughed 
aloud  with  the  rest.  His  feet  were  squarely  on  the 
ground,  after  all.  Of  course  they  were.  And 
splendidly,  magnificently  he  defied  the  prickly  feel- 
ing to  come  again  into  his  heels! 

The  Rev.  Needham  was,  in  truth,  privately  so 
captivated  with  this  curious  and  unforeseen  twist  in  his 
fortunes  that  he  forgot  all  about  his  own  customary 
fatigue:  forgot  that  this  was  the  hour  of  quiet  at  Beach- 
crest — rendered  so  by  immemorial  precedent.  He 
swaggered  a  little,  without,  of  course,  quite  losing  the 
ministerial  poise;  and  spoke  up,  as  his  wife  afterward 
phrased  it,  "real  brisk  and  hearty."  Cigars  were 
passed  to  Barry  and  O'Donnell.  The  Rev.  Needham 
bit  into  one  himself.  It  is  altogether  possible  he 
might,  under  the  influence  of  this  new  heroic  emotion, 
have  distributed  cigarettes,  had  there  been  anything 
so  devilish  on  the  premises. 

As  the  box  went  blithely  back  on  to  the  mantel,  Miss 


THE   KISS  169 

Whitcom,  who  was  greatly  enjoying  what  she  perfectly 
fathomed,  perceived  an  irresistible  obligation  to  sug- 
gest that  he  had  gone  only  half  way  around.  The 
Rev.  Needham  looked  perhaps  just  a  shade  startled. 
Could  he  bow  again?  And  if  not,  how  else  was  her 
manner  to  be  played  up  to?  Had  he  already  struck 
a  snag?  Obviously  it  would  be  going  a  little  too  far 
to  take  her  at  her  word  and  oifer  her  a  cigar. 

"One  wants  to  be  sociable,  you  know,"  she  said, 
her  eyes  sparkling. 

"I  know  of  a  lady  poet  in  the  East  who  smokes 
cigars,"  volunteered  O'Donnell. 

He  spoke  quite  easily,  as  though  for  Miss  Whit- 
corn's  special  benefit,  and  to  convey  the  impression 
that  he  had  quite  grown  accustomed  or  reconciled  to 
such  dainty  feminine  indulgence.  Indeed,  he 
looked  at  her  with  shy  sprightliness. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied,  "and,  if  you  remember,  a 
lady  novelist  started  the  custom." 

He  didn't  remember,  but  he  chuckled.  And  she 
went  on:  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  and  just  amongst  our- 
selves, why  shouldn't  women  smoke  if  they  want  to? 
And  why  shouldn't  they  want  to?  Isn't  it  perfectly 
natural  they  should?  I'm  not,  strictly  speaking, 
championing  the  habit,  for  it's  expensive  and  rather 
silly.  But  if  half  the  human  race  wants  to  turn  it- 
self into  portable  smoke  stacks,  then  by  all  means  let 
the  other  half  follow  suit.  So  you  see,  Alfred, 
you'd  really  better  let  me  have  one.  For  you  hear 
for  yourself,  Mr.  O'Donnell  knows  of  a  poet  who 


170         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

smokes.  Of  course,"  she  admitted,  "I'm  not  a 
poet." 

But  O'Donnell  was  certainly  in  a  romantic  mood 
today.  He  wouldn't  let  her  admission  stand.  "Yes, 
you  are,"  he  began,  with  an  odd  impulsiveness,  add- 
ing in  a  quieter  though  quite  as  fervent  tone:  " — a 
kind  of  poet.  .  .  ." 

They  eyed  each  other  steadily  a  moment,  as  they 
had  done  once  or  twice  before,  that  day.  It  was 
surely  another  O'Donnell  than  the  O'Donnell  of  long 
ago — the  O'Donnell,  for  instance,  who  had  eased  up 
at  the  finish  and  let  her  win  the  race.  Was  she,  also, 
in  a  way,  another  Marjory?  A  Marjory,  after  all, 
rather  less  insistent  upon,  or  who  had  grown  just  a  tiny 
bit  weary  of,  doing  things  simply  to  be  independent 
— simply  for  the  joy  of  doing  them  gloriously  and 
daringly  alone? 

When  the  gentlemen  had  repaired  to  the  porcli 
to  smoke  and  to  discuss,  as  is  the  custom  at  such 
times,  matters  too  deep  to  be  grasped  by  the  fem- 
inine intellect,  Miss  Whitcom  succeeded  in  confront- 
ing Louise. 

"Now,"  she  said,  with  a  warm,  inviting  firmness 
which  brought  a  flash  of  tears  to  the  girl's  eyes. 

She  laid  an  arm  around  Louise's  shoulders,  and 
they  stood  thus  together  a  few  moments  in  the  middle 
of  the  cottage  living  room.  Could  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham  have  looked  in  upon  this  affecting  picture,  and 
could  those  small  eager  ears  of  his  have  partaken  of 


THE   KISS  171 

the  subsequent  talk  which  passed  between  them,  the 
cigar  of  confidence  and  authority  would  have  drop- 
ped from  his  fingers,  its  brave  spark  dimmed  for- 
ever. Yes,  he  would  have  forgotten  completely  the 
brilliant  bow  which  had  seemed  to  smooth  away  all 
of  life's  snarls  by  giving  him,  marvellously,  in  an 
instant,  a  positive,  almost  Nietzschean  philosophy. 
But  for  the  present  he  was  safe. 

"How  could  things  have  gone  so  far  without  your 
realizing?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"But  you  must  know  how  you  feel  toward  him!" 
Louise  shook  her  head  miserably.  "I  thought 
I  cared.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  still  do." 

"But  aren't  you  sure?" 

"I — I  don't  believe  I  know.  I  don't  seem  sure  of 
anything." 

"But,  my  dear  child — " 

"I  thought  I  was  sure." 

"And  all  those  letters — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Louise  tensely.  "You  see  it 
was  all  letters,  Aunt  Marjie.  And  when  I  came  sud- 
denly to  see  him  again.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  come,  child,  we  don't  fall  in  love  with  men's 
hats  and  the  twist  of  their  profiles.  You  must  still 
love  whatever  it  was  you  loved  all  those  long  months 
you  were  apart.  Isn't  it  reasonable?" 

"I — I.  .  .  ."  Oh,  what  was  the  use  of  asking 
her  to  be  reasonable?  What  has  a  heart  full  of 
ghosts  to  do  with  reason?  And  Leslie.  .  .  . 


172         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

She  felt  like  crying.  She  began  looking  upon  her- 
self as  almost  a  person  who  has  been  somehow 
wronged.  Her  emotion  grew  thicker.  She  drew 
shyly  away. 

Aunt  Marjie,  as  she  let  her  go  from  her,  realizing 
that  words  just  now  would  get  them  nowhere,  was 
thinking  that  in  the  midst  of  a  universe  full  of  souls 
and  wheeling  planets,  one  poor  heartache  was  like  a 
grain  of  dust.  Well,  perhaps  she  was  a  kind  of  poet. 
But  in  a  moment  the  impersonal  millions,  both  of 
souls  and  of  stars,  vanished  away,  and  this  girl's 
problem  ascended  to  a  position  of  tremendous  im- 
portance, if  not  quite  of  majesty. 

At  length,  after  he  had  smoked  his  cigar,  the  Rev. 
Needham  did  retire  to  the  couch  of  his  wonted  siesta, 
leaving  the  household,  as  he  thought,  pleasantly  and 
profitably  disposed. 

Of  course,  the  fact  that  the  host  proposed  to  take 
a  nap  did  not  mean  that  all  the  others  had  to  follow 
suit.  It  was  just  part  of  the  device  for  making  every 
one  feel  that  nothing  was  being  upset  because  of 
"company."  It  did  not  mean  that  O'Donnell,  for 
instance,  would  have  to  subject  himself  to  the  rather 
embarrassing  alternative  of  curling  up  on  the  short 
living  room  sofa.  Miss  Whitcom  and  Mr.  O'Don- 
nell happly  repaired  to  the  rustic  bower.  Hilda 
skipped  off  singing  into  the  woods.  Mrs.  Needham 
— well,  Mrs.  Needham  was  still  in  the  kitchen  with 
Eliza.  The  latter  was  stolidly  eating  her  luncheon 


THE  KISS  173 

of  left-overs  on  the  very  table  to  which  Louise  and 
Leslie  had  sat  down  at  dawn.  Mrs.  Needham  stood 
solemnly  before  Eliza  as  she  ate,  her  hands  on  her 
hips,  her  face  growing  flushed  again,  talking  end- 
lessly— about  dinner.  Louise  and  Lynndal  Barry 
were  on  the  porch.  Lovers  were  so  brazen,  now- 
adays, they  didn't  mind  at  all  if  the  partitions  be- 
tween their  embraces  and  the  outside  world  were 
mere  mosquito  gauze.  The  Rev.  Needham,  slyly 
recognizing  this  great  truth,  chuckled  over  it,  in  his 
new  mood  of  sublime  assurance,  all  the  way  upstairs. 
Each  step  cracked,  and  all  the  way  up  he  was  telling 
himself  contentedly:  "A  fine  young  man — one  of 
God's  own  noblemen!"  And  as  gentle  slumber 
wafted  his  soul  into  a  peace  which,  especially  on  a 
full  stomach,  so  often  passeth  understanding,  he 
whispered  dreamily:  "Coming  right  into  the  fam- 

ily " 

Thank  God  the  Western  interests  were  forever 
safeguarded! 

But  meanwhile,  out  on  the  porch,  the  situation 
grew  from  moment  to  moment  more  poignant. 

Louise  seemed  suddenly  to  be  sparring  for  time. 
She  had  decided — as  well  as  her  giddy  little  brain 
was  capable,  just  now,  of  deciding  anything  at  all — 
that  the  whole  crux  of  the  matter  was  her  disappoint- 
ment over  the  way  Lynndal  had  turned  out.  .  .  . 
But  what  Aunt  Marjie  had  said  about  not  loving 
his  hat  and  the  twist  of  his  profile  anyhow  had  rather 


174         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

upset  her  again.  Once  she  almost  flung  herself  into 
his  arms  with  a  great,  comfortable,  forgiving,  be- 
seeching, surrendering  cry.  What  a  haven  his  arms 
might  seem!  But  something  in  her  heart,  she  imag- 
ined, warned  her:  "You  cannot  yet!  Dare  you? 
Remember — it  would  be  irrevocable!" 

Time,  time!  There  was  obviously  an  issue  to  be 
faced.  But  with  all  the  vital  eloquence  of  despera- 
tion Louise  reasoned  that  bitterness  deferred  might 
somehow  lose  a  degree  of  its  sting.  Feeble  logic,  and 
logic  not  very  profound;  but  she  was  scarcely  in  a 
frame  of  mind  to  evolve,  at  the  present  moment,  any 
logic  more  substantial.  Her  problem  was  delicate, 
tenuous,  like  the  sheen  on  the  wings  of  a  butterfly. 
Her  tragedy  was  a  thing  of  shades  and  of  shadows — 
a  thing  wellnigh  ungraspable.  But  it  was  none  the 
less  real.  Oh,  it  was  very  real  to  her!  In  an  orgy 
of  the  manana  spirit  she  abandoned  herself  to  even- 
tualities as  they  should  develop.  Her  fate — what- 
ever it  was  going  to  prove — would  rush  on  and  over- 
take her;  she  would  not  go  out  to  meet  it  half  way. 
Dared  not. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  think  me  not  very  cordial,"  she 
said  desperately,  "but  I  have  a  headache,  Lynndal, 
and  I'm  going  to  ask  if  you'd  mind  if  I  went  up  to 
my  room  for  a  little  while.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  in  real  and  honest  distress,  "I'm 
so  sorry!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?  Per- 
haps the  smoke  has  been  annoying  you?" 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  she  answered,  smiling  in  the 


THE   KISS  175 

wan  way  common  to  invalids  for  whom  the  end  is  in 
sight.  "These  headaches  come  on,  quite  suddenly 
sometimes.  If  I  lie  down  for  an  hour,  it  will  be 
gone,  I  think." 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  he  repeated,  touching  her  elbow 
as  she  turned  to  leave  him.  The  contact  emboldened 
him  and  he  slipped  an  arm  round  her  waist  and  bent 
over  her  a  little  as  he  walked  with  her  toward  the 
door.  "You  shouldn't  have  tried  to  meet  me  this 
morning,  dear.  It  was  too  much." 

"I  wanted  to,"  she  murmured  huskily. 

"Will  you  come  out  again  later?"  he  pleaded,  con- 
tent, under  the  circumstances,  that  she  should  leave 
him  now. 

Louise  nodded  and  passed  into  the  cottage. 

"Couldn't  we  take  a  little  walk  on  the  beach  later, 
if  your  head  is  better?  Later  on,  when  the  sun  isn't 
quite  so  hot?" 

She  turned  and  murmured:  "Yes."  There  was 
another  impulse  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms;  she 
longed  to  go  to  him  and  cry  against  his  heart.  But 
at  the  same  moment  she  remembered  Leslie — how 
close  he  had  held  her  in  the  morning,  how  they  had 
kissed.  .  .  .  The  impulse  was  stifled. 

When  she  was  gone  from  him,  Barry  sat  down 
again  on  the  porch  to  finish  his  cigar.  It  was  the  ci- 
gar which  the  Rev.  Needham  had  given  him  after 
luncheon.  It  was  a  good  cigar,  for  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham  knew  what  was  what,  despite  hi§  intense  holi- 
ness. 


176         THE  MOTH  DECIDES 

Barry  was  one  of  those  rare  individuals  who 
have  never  really  loved  before.  Curiously,  the  in- 
satiable god  Eros  had  passed  him  largely  by  till  now. 
But  ah — the  tardy  fevers!  They  may  be  more  vir- 
ulent than  those  of  timelier  visitation.  .  .  .  His  eye 
swept  the  curve  of  the  white  beach,  ablaze  with  the 
mid-day  sun.  Later  they  would  be  strolling  there  to- 
gether, he  and  she.  He  would  be  walking  out  there 
beside  this  dear  girl  whose  love  had  thrilled  to  the 
dull  roots  of  his  bachelordom.  And  then  he  would 
tell  her  how  he  adored  her;  would  open  the  little  box 
and  slip  the  ring  on  her  finger.  .  .  . 

It  was  so  wonderful,  after  dwelling  in  the  desert 
all  his  life! 


SHE  really  did  have  si  very  little  headache; 
though  this  was  the  least  of  her  troubles. 
There  sounded  a  whistle  outside.     In  the 
midst  of  her  wretchedness,  Louise  lifted  her  head 
and  listened.     Low  and  sustained,  it  had  saluted  her 
ear  when  dawn's  pink  flush  was  in  the  sky;  but  now 
it  seemed  far  more  eager;  it  seemed  to  glint  through 
the  sunshine. 

Springing  to  her  window,  Louise  crouched  there. 
The  historical  novel  lay  on  the  sill,  where  she  had 
left  it.  Her  fingers  closed  tensely  about  it,  although 
she  did  not  at  first  realize  what  it  was  she  was  clutch- 
ing. Leslie  was  outside.  She  could  see  him  com- 
ing on  through  the  forest,  and  caught  her  breath  in  a 
little  hysterical  gasp  of  joy.  Leslie!  She  couldn't 
let  him  go!  She  loved  him!  She  had  never,  she 
felt,  loved  anybody  as  she  loved  Leslie.  Oh,  the  in- 
justice of  it!  That  he  must  be  denied  her,  though 
it  was  he  she  loved  the  best!  But  there  must  be  a 
way.  Somehow,  somehow  she  must  contrive.  .  .  . 
She  must  contrive,  whatever  it  might  cost,  to  keep 
him.  .  .  .  But  she  faltered.  Wasn't  it  too  late? 

His  hands  were  in  his  pockets;  his  face  was  richly 

animated;  his  eyes  were  full  of  light.     Leslie  wa$ 

177 


178         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

almost  handsome — ah,  strangely  more  beautiful  now 
than  when  she  had  wanted  to  be  his  friend.  His 
brightness  dazzled  her;  and  she  looked  out  at  him 
through  her  perplexed  tears. 

He  had  held  her  for  a  moment  in  his  arms 
as  they  stood,  so  deeply  enthralled,  on  that  dappled 
forest  road.  Would  he  ever  hold  her  in  his  arms 
again? 

"Leslie!"  she  murmured. 

He  halted,  looking  quickly  about. 

"I'm  here,"  she  continued,  in  the  same  unhappy 
tone,  " — up  here!"  They  were  the  very  words  Lynn- 
dal  had  used  when  he  stood  above  her  on  the  deck  of 
the  steamer. 

And  it  was  plain,  too  painfully  plain,  Leslie  had 
not  been  searching  her  window.  At  first  he  ap- 
peared a  little  embarrassed.  An  indefinite  numb- 
ness closed  about  her  heart.  It  seemed,  all  at  once, 
as  though  retrospect  embodied  no  mutual  past  for 
these  two.  Intimate  strangers!  For  all  at  once 
Leslie  seemed  as  essentially  unknown  and  aloof  from 
her  destiny  as  Lynndal  had  seemed  during  that  first 
curious,  bewildering  moment  when  his  steamer  was 
coming  in.  Leslie — merely  a  lad  passing  by  outside, 
under  her  window.  And  she  blushed  at  the  thought 
of  having  dared  to  speak  to  him.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  know  where  Hilda  is?"  he  enquired,  try- 
ing to  throw  a  great  deal  of  carelessness  into  both 
tone  and  posture. 

Louise  miserably  shook  her  head. 


THE   KISS  179 

"I  was  to  meet  her,"  Leslie  explained  simply. 
And,  smiling,  he  turned  with  abruptness  and  began 
strolling  off.  He  could  be  cool  enough  when  it 
pleased  him. 

"Leslie!"  she  cried  out,  though  discreetly.  For 
she  dared  not  let  Lynndal  hear  her.  In  volume  her 
voice  by  no  means  matched  its  almost  terrible  in- 
tensity. 

The  tone  arrested  him.  "What?"  And  he  stop- 
ped and  looked  bluntly  back  at  the  window. 

"Wait,  Leslie,  I  think  I  know  where  Hilda  is." 

"Where?" 

"Wait  just  a  minute.  I'm  coming  down.  Will 
you  come  around  to  the  back  door?" 

He  nodded,  too  indifferent  to  voice  the  curiosity 
he  might  normally  be  expected  to  feel  over  her  desire 
to  emerge  from  the  back  rather  than  from  the  front 
door  of  the  cottage. 

As  she  flew,  a  sudden  determination  swayed  her. 
Both  men,  she  argued,  were  strangers  again.  She 
must  win  Leslie  back! 

When  she  stole  out  to  him  a  moment  later,  he  was 
loitering  casually  in  the  vicinity  of  a  little  shed 
where  driftwood  was  kept.  The  Rev.  Needham  al- 
ways made  a  point  of  talking  about  the  rare  quality 
of  surf -wood  blazes.  The  Rev.  Needham  had  con- 
structed this  shed  also  with  his  own  hands,  just  as  he 
had  constructed  the  remarkable  rustic  bench;  only 
the  shed  had  taken  another  summer,  of  course.  This 
shed  was  really  a  Beachcrest  institution;  so  was  like- 


180          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

wise  the  perennial  lugging  up  of  driftwood  for  stor- 
age therein  recognized  to  be  an  almost  religous  ad- 
junct of  Point  life.  There  was  an  informal  rule — 
of  ancient  standing,  playfully  enough  conceived,  and 
of  course  playfully  laid  down — that  no  one  should 
come  in  from  the  beach  without  at  least  one  piece  of 
driftwood.  Much  preferably,  of  course,  a  respect- 
able, staggering  armful.  The  rule  was  wholly  play- 
ful; and  yet,  should  several  days  pass  with  no  con- 
tribution at  all  to  the  shed,  Mrs.  Needham  and  the 
girls  would  be  troubled,  and  perhaps  even  a  trifle 
frightened,  to  behold  the  minister  himself  tottering  in 
with  a  colossal  load.  He  would  cast  reproachful 
glances  their  way.  And  it  would  sometimes  be  a 
long  while  before  he  regained  any  sort  of  serenity. 
Yet  it  was  a  favourite  maxim  with  the  Rev.  Needham 
that  they  came  up  here  to  the  cottage  for  sheer  re- 
laxation and  amusement. 

Leslie  had  selected  from  the  shed  a  smooth  splin- 
ter, once  part  of  a  ship's  spar.  He  had  taken  out 
his  knife  and  was  busy  whittling.  And  he  kept  at 
this  self-imposed  task  quite  doggedly,  seeming  to  find 
in  it  a  certain  sanctuary.  His  eyes  scrupulously 
followed  the  slashings  of  the  blade.  Thus  they 
avoided  hers — for  the  most  part  without  too  de- 
liberately seeming  to  do  so.  Louise  was  herself 
dimly  grateful  for  the  distraction. 

"What  do  you  think  I  found  in  Frankfort  this 
morning?"  she  demanded,  trying  to  smile  with  some- 
thing of  the  old  bewitchment.  The  historical  novel 


THE   KISS  181 

was  clasped  behind  her.  She  had  certainly  not 
meant  to  show  it  to  him;  yet  here  it  was. 

"I  give  w/>,"  he  replied,  accentuating  the  final 
word  with  a  particularly  telling  stroke  on  the  spar 
splinter. 

Then  she  drew  the  book  slowly  round  into  sight 
and  half  extended  it,  as  though  it  were  an  offering 
that  might  effect  a  return,  somehow,  to  that  golden 
relationship  which  Lynndal's  coming  had  broken  off. 

"A  book?"     He  went  on  whittling. 

"You  haven't  even  read  the  title!"  she  cried, 
half  pleadingly. 

"Something  new?" 

"Why,  Les.  .  .  ." 

Glancing  back  at  the  book,  he  merely  muttered: 
"Oh." 

"You  remember  you  were  telling  me  about  it. 
I  happened  to  see  it  in  a  window."  She  spoke  a  lit- 
tle hysterically,  and  began  wishing  she  had  not  come 
down.  "Only  think — in  a  town  like  Frankfort,  of 
all  places!  I  was  so  surprised  that  I  walked  right 
in  and  bought  it!  I — I  expect  to  enjoy  it  very 
much,"  she  ended  miserably. 

Leslie  whittled,  still  stubbornly  taciturn.  If  he 
would  ask  about  Lynndal — if  he  would  only 
show  some  kind  of  emotion:  anything  would  be  bet- 
ter than  this  awful  silence.  Finally,  since  he  thus 
forced  her  hand,  Louise  reminded  him  that  she  had 
previously  intimated  a  knowledge  of  her  sister's 
whereabouts. 


182         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Do  you  know  where  she  is?"  he  looked  at  her 
with  a  furtive  flash  of  interest. 

"I  think  she's  gone  to  the  tree-house." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Long  ago?" 

"No,  not  so  very  long." 

Leslie  began  humming,  and  shifted  restlessly. 

"I  think  you'd  find  her  there,  Les,  if  you  wanted 
to  find  her.  But  if.  .  .  ."  She  left  it  dumbly  in 
the  air. 

Still  the  boy  hummed,  his  eyes  never  leaving  the 
spar. 

"Are  you  two  going  for  a  hike,  or  some- 
thing?" 

He  stirred  and  looked  up  quickly  at  a  little  red 
squirrel  chattering  on  a  bough  above  them.  "We're 
going  to  cut  sticks  for  the  roast  tonight." 

"Is  there  to  be  a  roast?" 

"The  mid-summer  Assembly  Roast,"  he  explained, 
a  little  pointedly.  There  seemed  no  reason  for  one's 
forgetting  so  important  an  event  as  the  Assembly 
Roast. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied.  "I'd  forgotten  all  about 
it,  for  the  moment.  Will  it  be  over  beyond  the  light- 
house?" 

"Yes,  clear  around  the  Point." 

"Sticks,   you   mean,    for   marshmallows?"     How 
obvious  it  all  sounded! 
.'     "Marshmallows     and     wienies,"     he     told     her. 


THE   KISS  183 

"There  will  have  to  be  at  least  three  dozen  sticks,  so 
I  guess  I'd  better.  .  .  ." 

The  little  squirrel  chattered  brazenly  on  above 
them.  A  locust  was  shrilling  somewhere  across  the 
dazzling  sand.  She  told  herself  she  had  given  him 
every  chance. 

"You  mustn't  let  me  keep  you,  Les." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right." 

She  had  given  him  every  chance.  He  did  not 
care,  after  all.  She  had  been  deceived  in  him.  Oh, 
the  injustice  of  it  all! 

"I  must  go  find  Mr.  Barry,"  she  said.  "He'll 
wonder  what's  become  of  me!"  And  she  forced  a 
brief  little  laugh.  "It  will  be  lots  of  fun.  I'd  for- 
gotten all  about  the  mid-summer  roast!  I'll — we'll 
see  you  there.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

Their  eyes  suddenly  met.  She  flushed,  and  her 
throat  ached.  He  turned  slowly  away. 

"Good-bye,  Les." 

"Good-bye,"  he  answered. 

Louise  reentered  the  cottage  by  the  back  door. 
Eliza  was  singing  over  her  work  at  the  sink.  And 
Leslie,  smiling  in  a  kind  of  baffling  way,  strolled  off, 
still  whittling  the  broken  spar. 

And  Eros  skipped  beside  him.  Eros  knew  well 
enough  where  the  tree-house  was.  He  didn't  have  to 
be  shown,  for  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  helped  con- 
struct it,  up  in  the  crotch  of  a  giant  oak:  had  subse- 
quently climbed  nimbly  to  the  tiny  empire  of  its  se- 


184          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

elusion  in  the  interest  of  many  a  summer  twain. 
Yes,  Eros  knew  the  way  quite  well.  However,  for 
the  sheer  sake  of  companionship,  he  chose  to  skip 
along  by  the  side  of  a  lad  who  was  whittling  a 
broken  spar  and  smiling  in  a  kind  of  baffling  way. 


8 


uFn|"^HE  Queen  of  Tahulamaji,"  admitted  Miss 
iWhitcom,   "was   really  a   most   amazing 
M        creature." 

"I  should  Jhink  it  likely." 

They  were  sitting  together  on  the  rustic  bench.  At 
first  he  had  been  on  the  rustic  bench  alone.  She 
had  flung  herself  in  the  hammock.  But  the  interest 
of  their  talk  had  brought  her  first  to  a  sitting  posture, 
then  to  a  standing  posture,  and  finally  to  a  rustic 
bench  posture. 

"Ah,  but  you  mustn't  think  just  because  she  was 
amazing  that  she  wasn't  also  perfectly  human — 
sometimes  almost  desperately  so,  O'Donnell!" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  can  somehow  picture  her — 
especially  the  desperate  times." 

"Well,  of  course  she  did  have  her  eccentricities. 
For  instance,  her  temper.     To  the  last  it  remained 
most  alarmingly  and  deliciously  undependable." 
,    "To  the  last?" 
•    "Ah,  yes — poor  Tessie!" 

"Tessie?" 

"I  always  called  her  that.  It  wasn't  strictly  Tah- 
ulamajian,  but  she  adored  the  name." 

"So  the  Queen  is  dead?" 

185 


186         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Yes,  Queen  Tess  died  early  in  the  spring.  She 
was  terribly  old,  but  game  right  up  to  the  last  min- 
ute. You  never  saw  such  gameness.  The  funeral 
was  immensely  impressive." 

"Whole  populace  turned  out,  of  course?" 
"Rather.  Ostracism  threatened  against  any  who 
stayed  away  without  a  valid  excuse!  And  they  car- 
ried her  along,  all  dresesd  up  in  her  robes  of  state, 
and  even  with  a  crown  on.  Poor,  dear  Tessie! 
How  often  she  used  to  say  to  me  in  private,  when  the 
mats  were  all  snug  over  the  doors:  'You  know  there 
are  times,'  she'd  say,  'when  I  have  my  doubts  about 
all  this  sovereign  divinity  business.  It's  down  in  the 
state  books  that  I'm  one  of  the  direct  line,  descended 
from  Mentise-huhu  and  the  gods  of  the  Sea  Foam. 
But  there  are  times  when  I  have  my  doubts,'  she  used 
to  say.  'There  are  times  when  I  seem  to  be  just  Tes- 
sie, and  between  you  and  me,  I'm  coming  to  suspect 
that  there  never  were  any  gods  of  the  Sea  Foam  at 
all!' " 

O'Donnell  smiled  at  her  look  of  momentary  ab- 
straction. What  a  life  Marjory's  had  been — what  a 
life!  Here  he  found  her,  at  last,  in  the  heart  of  a 
religious  colony.  But  at  one  time  she  had  sold 
bonds  in  Wall  Street;  she  had  been  an  agent  for  a 
Pacific  steamship  line;  she  had  been  a  political  or- 
ganizer in  the  North-west;  and  she  had  once  served 
as  associate  editor  of  a  newspaper.  Yes,  she  had  al- 
ways struck  O'Donnell — himself  so  simple  and 
homely  of  nature — as  most  violently  revolutionary. 


THE   KISS  187 

He  remembered  how,  in  the  early  days,  she  used  to 
march  in  suffrage  parades.  She  had  taken  up  So- 
cialism and  dropped  it;  had  smoked;  and  he  dis- 
tinctly recalled  her  having  used,  in  her  time,  quite 
sporty  language.  Once  she  had  had  something  to  do 
with  the  races,  and  had  worn  a  derby.  And 
yet  ... 

"Well,"  he  mused,  "after  all  it's  the  same  Mar- 
jory." 

"You  think  so?"     She  was  amused. 

"Yes,  the  same  old  Marjory.  I  wonder  if  there 
ever  was  a  time  when  you  weren't  'advanced.' ' 

"You  call  me  advanced?  My  dear  fellow,  I  must 
refer  you — " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  protested.  "You  forget  I've 
come  to  know  them  all.  Perhaps,"  he  added  slyly, 
"I'm  growing  just  a  little  advanced  myself!" 

"You?" 

"Can  you  imagine?" 

"Oh,  well—" 

"In  my  old  age — fancy  that!" 

"True,  I'd  forgotten  the  poet." 

"Well,"  he  admitted,  "one  lives  and  learns." 

"We  all  do  that,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Well,  but  do  you  mean  we've  nothing  left  to 
quarrel  about?  Has  it  really  come  to  such  a 
pass?" 

"I  do."  He  spoke  almost  solemnly.  It  was  a 
little  like  the  "I  do"  of  the  marrige  rite. 


188         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Barrett!  Good  heavens!  What's  the  world 
coming  to?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied  naively.  "I  only  know 
there  are  no  grounds  left.  I've  capitulated,  you  see, 
at  every  point." 

"Tut,  tut!" 

"Every  point!"  he  insisted.  No  compromise 
would  do.  It  might  amaze  her,  might  snatch  the 
ground  from  under  her  feet;  he  would  admit,  at  last, 
no  compromise. 

She  grew  whimiscal,  then  a  new  earnestness  creep- 
ing into  her  voice:  "You  know,"  she  said,  "I've 
come  to  suspect  some  of  this  talk  of  being  'advanced.' 
I  mean" — for  she  felt  his  enquiring  gaze — "I've  come 
at  length  to  suspect  that  in  just  going  ahead.  .  .  . 
Barrett,  for  heaven's  sake  help  me  out!"  For  once 
in  her  life — and  it  was  surely  a  portentous  symptom 
— Miss  Whitcom  was  groping. 

"Well,"  she  went  on  at  last,  still  speaking  ear- 
nestly, if  fumblingly,  "I'm  not  sure  I  can  express  at 
all  what  I  feel.  It's  what  I've  been  coming  to  feel 
more  and  more — no  doubt  a  gradual  development  up 
out  of  the  cocksure  attitude  of  one's — Barrett,  I've 
begun  using  a  dreadful  and  ruthless  word — one's 
immaturity.  .  .  !"  She  tossed  her  head.  "It  doesn't 
mean  I  don't  still  believe  in  all  the  fine,  big  move- 
ments. You  know" — her  voice  for  a  moment  grew 
almost  tender — "I  always  looked  upon  myself  as  one 
of  the  first  of  the  'new'  women.  I  wasn't  going  at 
things  blindly.  I  was  always  following  an  ideal, 


THE   KISS  189 

Barrett,  even  when  the  things  I  did  seemed  most  wild 
and  inexplicable.  But  as  I  look  back  I  seem  to  have 
been  following  strange  roads  in  an  effort  to  reach  it! 
How  strange!  And  now — yes,  only  fancy,  as  you 
say:  in  one's  old  age! — I'm  afraid  I  see  in  a  way  that 
'progress'  can  be  overdone.  That  is,  I've  come  to 
see  that  progress  is  something  you  can't  force.  Yet 
there  have  to  be  pioneers  in  the  world,  don't  there, 
Barrett?  People  who  are  reckless,  and  pay  the 
price,  and  aren't  afraid  of  going  too  far.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I  realize  that,  as  I've  always  realized  it.  But  oh, 
Barrett,  Barrett — I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  to  be  very, 
very  selfish.  I've  been  a  pioneer  so  long,  and  after 
all  I  don't  quite  want  to  be  a  pioneer  to  the  very  end 
of  my  days.  I — I  somehow  feel  I  want  to  stop  being 
one  before — oh,  Barrett,  before  it's  quite  too 
late  .  .  .  !" 

"I  think,"  said  O'Donnell  slowly,  his  voice  just  a 
little  shaken,  "if  the  time  has  come  for  plain  speak- 
ing like  this,  you'd  better  let  me  hold  your  hand. 
Do  you  mind?" 

"Listen  to  him!"  she  said,  in  one  of  her  richest 
tones  of  banter. 

All  the  same,  she  let  him  have  it. 

While  these  important  events  were  proceeding, 
Louise,  who  had  not  gone  to  find  Mr.  Barry,  after 
all,  but  who  had  returned  to  her  room  instead,  slept 
a  little.  She  was  unused  to  such  early  rising,  and 
she  had  been  through  a  great  deal  since  dawn. 


190          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

She  slept,  and  had  a  dream.  She  dreamed  that 
she  and  Leslie  were  to  be  married.  She  seemed  to 
be  very  much  excited,  and  to  be  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  indefinite  persons,  some  of  them  friends 
she  now  possessed,  and  some  of  them  friends  she  had 
known  in  her  early  girlhood.  And  all  the  while  she 
was  happily  arguing:  "I  know  I'm  a  little  bit  older, 
but  we  love  each  other  so  much  that  just  a  mere 
couple  of  years  don't  count." 

Waking  with  a  start  to  problems  more  sinister  than 
merely  that  involving  a  conventional  disagreement  of 
ages,  Louise  perceived  that  it  had  drawn  to  the 
golden  midst  of  afternoon.  Lynndal  was  waiting 
for  her.  As  the  curious,  almost  hypnotic  quality  of 
the  dream  wore  off,  she  responded  to  another  flash  of 
new  purpose.  The  dream  still  haunted  and  oppres- 
sed her;  at  first  it  had  made  her  sad;  but  as  it  faded 
into  a  renewed  appreciation  of  that  humiliating 
conversation  beside  the  driftwood  shed,  a  mood  of 
rebellion  came  upon  her. 

She  tossed  her  head  haughtily:  Leslie  should  be 
allowed  to  make  no  further  difference  to  her.  She 
would  thrust  him  entirely  out  of  her  life.  He  ought 
never  really  to  have  entered  it.  No,  she  shouldn't 
have  given  herself  to  Leslie,  even  temporarily.  It 
had  produced  an  unpleasant  situation,  and  afforded 
him  an  opportunity  now  to  fling  all  her  kindness 
back  in  her  face.  He  had,  indeed,  treated  her 
shamefully — not  at  all  as  he  had  treated  her  earlier 
in  the  day.  At  dawn.  .  .  .  But  she  murmured 


THE   KISS  191 

angrily:  "This  is  the  return  one  gets  for  trying  to  be 
nice  to  a  man!" 

The  new  mood  inclined  her,  in  a  subtle  way, 
toward  Lynndal — as  abruptly  as  it  had  hardened  her 
heart  against  Leslie.  The  emotion  of  the  moment 
illuminated  the  former  in  an  almost  rosy  manner. 
She  began  thinking  of  Lynndal  warmly  and  roman- 
tically— as  she  had  thought  of  him  during  those  long 
months  when  they  were  far  apart.  Her  attitude 
again  became  the  attitude  she  had  maintained 
throughout  the  period  of  their  increasingly  affec- 
tionate correspondence.  And  the  sense  of  his  near- 
ness seemed  no  longer  to  distract  or  terrify  her. 
Excitement  stirred  in  her  breast.  It  leapt  to  her 
eyes  and  trembled  upon  her  lips.  She  had  never 
loved  Lynndal  so  almost  tempestuously.  Strong 
emotion  of  this  sort  always  had  a  beautifying  effect 
upon  Miss  Needham.  Her  face  glowed  as  she 
encouraged  the  rekindling  passion.  She  fanned  the 
flame  of  her  love  for  Lynndal,  and  at  the  same  time 
a  soft  sense  of  steadfastness  and  assurance  snuffed 
out  the  dismal  quandary  which  had  wracked  and  tor- 
tured her  soul  from  the  moment  she  saw  him  up  on 
the  deck  of  the  steamer.  Some  mad  whim,  she 
argued  feverishly,  had  filled"  her  with  a  panic  of 
indecision  and  dread;  but  that  was  gone  now.  She 
whipped  the  purging  passion  into  new  and  fan- 
tastic fervour.  Her  laugh  had  a  touch  of  wildness 
in  it.  Even  Richard  had  never  moved  her  like 
this! 


192          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

Suddenly,  a  little  chill  seized  her  heart.  What  if 
already  it  were  too  late?  What  if,  by  her  coldness 
and  aloofness,  she  had  already  created  in  LynndaFs 
heart  a  havoc  which  could  not  be  rescinded?  Was  it 
not  wholly  conceivable  that  she  -had  killed  his  love 
for  her?  Had  she  not  shown  herself  perverse, 
cruel,  and  irredeemably  fickle?  Perhaps  now  the 
tables  would  be  turned,  and  he  would  draw  away 
from  her,  even  as  she  had  shrunk  from  him.  The 
thought  had  a  maddening  influence:  she  felt  mo- 
mentarily faint  and  distracted.  Then  a  new  energy 
of  determination  blazed  in  her  eyes.  It  must  not  be 
too  late.  She  must  win  him  back,  however  far  her 
wretched  conduct  may  have  driven  him. 

Louise  dressed  with  elaborate  care,  giving  heed 
to  every  eloquent  detail  of  her  toilette.  She  tore 
off  the  brooch  Richard  had  given  her  and  flung  it 
into  her  jewel  box  with  a  gesture  of  gay  scorn.  No 
more  toying  and  trifling!  She  was  ready  now  to  give 
herself  completely  and  for  all  time — the  more  ready 
because  of  that  uneasy  little  tremor  of  doubt  lest 
she  had  killed  his  love.  Yes,  it  was  a  wonderful 
moment — a  moment  so  packed  with  the  frenzy  of 
giving  that  there  remained  no  other  thought  at  all 
in  her  mind.  She  lived  for  the  moment  alone.  She 
made  herself  radiant  for  Lynndal,  the  emotion  which 
swayed  her  growing  more  and  more  riotous.  She 
surrendered  herself  to  it.  He  was  waiting  for  her. 
And  she  went  down  to  him  hopefully,  wistfully,  yet 
withal  triumphantly. 


THE   KISS  193 

"Which  way?"  asked  Lynndal  as  they  descended 
the  short  bluff  and  reached  the  hard,  surf-packed 
shore. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  laughed  up  at  him.  "Shall 
we  go  this  way?" 

It  didn't  matter  to  Barry.  All  ways  were  equal 
to  him,  since  he  was  really  and  truly  in  love  and 
spent  no  great  amount  of  attention  upon  the  scenery. 
He  looked  at  her  adoringly.  His  quiet  eyes  were 
dazzled. 

They  strolled  along  close  beside  the  little  waves. 
It  was  rather  a  picture.  She  was  charmingly 
gowned,  and  carried  a  small  plum  parasol. 

"Let  me  take  your  coat,  dear,"  he  suggested. 

She  gave  him  the  light  silk  wrap,  and  he  carried 
it  on  his  arm,  crooked  almost  pathetically  for  the 
purpose. 

"I  don't  wonder  you  like  it  up  here,"  he  said, 
looking  off  over  the  sparkling  water.  "If  we  had 
this  in  the  centre  of  the  desert.  .  .  ." 

"I  suppose  it  would  make  a  difference."  All  at 
once  she  pictured  the  desert.  She  pictured  herself 
living  in  the  midst  of  the  desert  with  Lynndal. 

Then  the  dry-farming  expert  went  on  to  explain, 
at  some  length,  just  what  would  happen  were  this 
sea  to  be  transported  to  the  parched  heart  of  Arizona. 
The  words  began  falling  a  little  dully  on  her  ears. 
She  was  vaguely  troubled.  But  she  could  not  tell 
just  why  it  should  be  §o. 

There  was  a  silence.     They  walked  along  slowly 


194         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

side  by  side.  A  wave  of  happiness  stole  upon  the 
man;  his  hand,  encountering  hers,  closed  over  it  ten- 
derly. 

She  caught  her  breath  a  little.  "Lynndal,"  she 
cautioned,  "you  mustn't.  .  .  ." 

But  he  clung  to  her  hand.  He  had  come  so  far! 
And  again  she  seemed  to  hear  those  terrible  words 
booming  in  her  ears:  "You  are  mine,  all  mine!" 

Slowly  his  arm  crept  round  her  waist.  There 
was  nothing  overwhelming  about  the  action:  Barry 
was  not  an  overwhelming  man,  and  had  not  an  over- 
whelming way  with  him.  His  was,  rather,  a  kind 
of  gentle,  furtive  passion,  which  displayed  itself  in 
a  very  slight  trembling,  an  occasional  queer  huskiness 
of  voice. 

All  at  once  Louise  grew  alarmed.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  a  terrible  and  inevitable  moment  had  come. 
She  wasn't  entirely  prepared.  She  must  have  more 
time  .  .  .  / 

"Please  take  your  arm  away,  Lynndal,"  she  said 
tensely. 

"But  why,  dear?" 

"Please!     The  cottagers'.  .  .  ." 

"But  Louise,  dear,  there  isn't  a  cottage  in  sight." 
They  had,  indeed,  proceeded  by  this  time  well 
around  the  Point.  "There's  no  one  to  see,  and  be- 
sides. .  .  ." 

She  glanced  up  shyly.  His  face  was  kind.  His 
eyes  were  pleading  and  full  of  quiet  reassurance. 
Did  he  suspect  a  little  the  turmoil  within  her?  There 


THE   KISS  195 

was  no  reason  why  his  arm  shouldn't  be  about  her; 
yet  her  mind  went  on  groping.  It  was  like  being 
in  a  thick  wood.  Could  she  give  herself  to  him 
entirely?  Could  she  give  herself  to  anyone  en- 
tirely? 

"Louise,  I  love  you,"  he  murmured,  bending  down 
so  that  his  lips  were  close  to  her  cheek. 

She  trembled.  But  she  told  herself  that  he  had 
come  to  her  out  of  the  desert;  that  he  was  her  lover; 
and  that  she  must  give  herself  to  him  without  any 
more  restraint.  Why  had  she  led  him  on  and  on  if 
she  didn't  intend  to  give  herself  fully  at  last? 

"Louise,  dearest.  .  .  .  Louise!" 

"Yes,  Lynndal.  .  .  ." 

*'I  love  you  so  much!" 

The  old  panic  surged  again,  but  she  fought  it  back. 
"For  ever  and  ever — nobody  but  me.  .  .  ."  Yet 
there  were  so  many  others.  .  .  .  Chaos  again  en- 
veloped the  girl. 

"Won't  you  kiss  me?" 

His  arms  were  adoringly  about  her.  His  lips 
came  close  to  hers.  It  was  time,  now,  to  give  herself. 
She  raised  her  lips. 

They  kissed. 

But  a  great  cry  was  in  her  heart:  "I  can't!"  It 
was  almost  as  though  he  had  heard  it,  for  he  let 
her  slip  way;  and  she  stood  there  before  him,  her 
head  lowered,  her  hands  desperately  covering  her 
face. 

Louise  thought  blindly   of  Richard — what  their 


196         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

first  kiss  had  been  like  .  .  .  !  And  then  she  remem- 
bered how,  afterward,  she  had  longed  for  death. 
With  what  completeness  the  situation  now  was 
reversed!  Now  she  was  loved,  and  it  was  she  who 
would  break  her  lover's  heart.  Yet  still  the  same 
swift  longing  for  death.  .  .  . 

They  walked  on  slowly.  Barry's  head  was  low- 
ered. Finally  he  asked  thickly:  "Don't  you  love  me, 
then?" 

She  bent  her  head  lower  and  could  not  answer. 
The  fault  was  her  own,  and  he  must  suffer  for  it. 
Yet  stealthy  colour  crept  back  into  her  cheeks;  her 
mood  grew  muddy  and  subtly  defiant.  Was  not  he 
making  her  suffer? 

It  wasn't,  she  blindly  felt,  so  much  that  she  didn't 
love  him,  as  that,  strangely  and  tragically,  he  must  be 
all  to  her — and  she  could  not  face  it. 

How  strange  it  was!  How  unpremeditated  and 
utterly  tragic!  In  his  pocket  huddling  against  the 
little  box  with  its  precious  prisoner,  was  a  letter  in 
which  the  amplest  and  most  ardent  affection  was 
expressed.  It  was  a  letter  which  expressed  an  ear- 
nest desire  for  his  coming — so  eager.  Barry  was 
bewildered.  What  did  such  lightning-swift  changes 
of  heart  signify?  Had  she  only  imagined  herself 
in  love?  What  was  this  that  had  come  to  him? 
Had  he  come  out  of  the  desert  for  nothing  after  all? 
Was  all  the  promise  of  new  life  sheer  illusion? 

They  walked   on  a  little  way  and  then  turned 
slowly  back. 


PART  THREE 
THE  LIGHT 


THE  Rev.  Needham.  awoke  from  his  siesta 
wonderfully  refreshed.  These  benign  after- 
noon snoozes  had  a  peculiar  and  sometimes 
iquite  poignant  effect.  The  minister  dimly  felt 
it  must  have  something  to  do  with  psychology. 
For  he  always  awoke  feeling  so  spiritual,  so 
calm  and  strong.  Today,  of  course,  there  was 
particularly  traceable  cause:  he  had  gone  to  sleep, 
one  must  remember,  in  a  miraculously  resolute, 
yes,  a  truly  masterful,  mood.  Did  we  call  it 
Nietzschean?  Well,  perhaps  it  really  was  almost 
that.  At  any  rate,  waking  was  delicious.  There 
was  a  largeness,  a  breadth  about  life  which  made  one 
want  to  square  one's  shoulders,  step  out  proudly. 
Before  the  dresser  mirror,  in  the  act  of  resuming 
collar  and  tie,  the  Rev.  Needham  actually  did  square 
his  shoulders  a  little.  He  even  threw  out  his  chest 
somewhat.  Oh,  it  is  sweet  to  be  master  of  one's  own 
destiny! 

Out  on  the  porch  he  found  his  wife,  rocking  there 
all  by  herself  and  looking  a  little  vacantly  off  at  the 
shrubs  and  trees. 

"Ah,  Anna,"  he  said;  then  perched  himself  in  a 
nonchalant,  really  an  almost  rakish  manner,  on  the 

199 


200         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

railing,  throwing  one  leg  over  the  other,  and  folding 
his  arms.  He  yawned  a  little  audibly,  concluding 
that  function  with  a  kind  of  masterful,  contented 
smacking  of  the  lips — even  whistled  a  few  bars  of 
a  gay  secular  tune. 

"Did  you '  sleep  well,  Alf  ?"  Anna  Needham 
spoke  calmly,  rocked  calmly.  She  still  eyed  the 
shrubs  and  trees  in  a.  spirit  of  almost  hypnotized 
calm. 

"I  had  a  magnificent  nap,"  he  assured  her. 

Anna  rocked  more  slowly.     "Alf,"  she  hesitated. 

"Yes,  Anna?" 

"Alf,  I  wonder  if  I  can  be  getting  old    .  .  .  ?" 

"Old,  Anna?"  He  was  really  quite  shocked  at 
the  suggestion. 

"Yes — I  don't  know.     Sometimes.  .  .  ." 

"Nonsense!" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  ."  she  continued  dreamily. 

"But  why  should  you  ever  think  such  a  thing?" 

"Well,  lately  there've  been  times  when  I've  felt  so 
kind  of  still.  I  don't  know,  but  I  thought — I  thought 
it  might  be.  .  .  ." 

"Why,  Anna  .  .  .  !"  he  cried  in  vaguely  fright- 
ened tones. 

"I  don't  know,  Alf."  Her  manner  retained  its 
essential  dreaminess.  "Sometimes  when  I  sit  alone 
rocking,  I  feel  so  kind  of  still.  .  .  ." 

The  minister  laughed,  then,  with  even  an  attempt 
at  something  like  boisterousness;  but  it  was  plain 
something  of  his  earlier  flamboyancy  had  vanished. 


THE   LIGHT  201 

Abruptly,  right  in  the  heyday  of  his  most  glorious 
mood,  the  shortness  of  life  struck  him  with  uncanny 
force.  Life's  shortness,  and,  though  he  indignantly 
repudiated  the  insinuation,  its  relative  futility, -after 
all.  Where  had  one  come  from  in  the  beginning; 
just  what  was  it  one  was  up  to  now;  and  where  was 
it  one  would  go  when  the  breath  of  life  ceased  flow- 
ing? Oh,  what  a  piece  of  work  is  man!  These  were 
the  secret  inner  workings.  With  a  thrill  of  genuine 
horror  the  minister  found  himself  asking  what  he 
knew,  as  a  fact,  after  all  these  years  of  preaching  it, 
about  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  It  was  terrible, 
terrible!  Oh,  that  he  should  be  afflicted  with  such 
doubts!  And  not  ten  minutes  ago  the  Rev.  Needham 
had  squared  his  shoulders  and  flashed  so  grand  a 
defiance  at  his  own  reflection.  .  .  . 

Curiously  enough,  this  sudden  unpleasant  sense  of 
renewed  insecurity  was  augmented,  at  the  moment 
when  it  was  most  acute,  by  the  rippling  laughter  of 
his  approaching  sister-in-law.  Miss  Whitcom  and 
her  friend  were  returning  from  their  tete-a-tete  in  the 
bower.  The  laugh,  whatever  it  might  mean  to  the 
minister,  signified  that  the  lady  was  not,  so  easily, 
to  be  carried  off  her  feet,  and  that,  however  thrill- 
ingly  she  might  talk  about  not  being  a  pioneer  any 
longer,  no  mere  travelling  man  was  to  capture  her 
without  at  least  a  concluding  scramble. 

Barrett  O'Donnell  knew  quite  well  what  the  laugh 
signified.  But  it  didn't,  for  all  that,  very  greatly 
disturb  him.  Lord,  he'd  waited  twenty  years:  he 


202          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

could  wait  twenty  more,  if  necessary.  There  is  not 
that  hot  impetuosity  in  the  affection  of  souls  matured 
which  characterizes  youth;  not  that  fever,  that  rest- 
less, exquisite  rush  of  heady  devotion.  Still,  there 
is  perhaps  something  in  being  quite  sure  your  love 
isn't  misplaced.  Yes,  in  a  way,  to  be  sure  may  be 
even  better  than  to  possess. 

The  return  of  Miss  Whitcom  and  Mr.  O'Donnell 
from  one  direction  fell  simultaneously  with  the  re- 
turn of  Louise  and  Lynndal  Barry  from  another. 
The  porch  became  a  very  lively  place,  all  at  once, 
where  a  few  moments  before  it  had  been  so  quiet, 
with  only  the  minister's  wife  there,  rocking.  .  .  . 
Louise  was  greatly  relieved  that  it  should  be  so.  To 
have  returned  to  a  silent  and  deserted  house  after 
what  had  passed  between  herself  and  Lynndal  on  the 
beach  must  have  proved  next  to  unbearable.  As  it 
was,  the  frantic  difficulty  of  the  situation  would  be 
lightened,  if  only  temporarily. 

Marjory  pounced  at  once  upon  the  westerner,  turn- 
ing from  her  ancient  suitor  with  a  careless  alacrity 
which  seemed  saying:  "After  all,  I  am  free,  quite 
superbly  free!"  And  O'Donnell  muttered  an  "Ah!" 
scarce  audibly;  and  what  he  meant  by  it  was  this: 
"I  know  you'll  come  back  to  me.  You  always  have 
and  you  always  will.  We  are  not  quite  free,  either 
of  us,  in  one  sense  of  the  word."  One  glorious, 
indomitable  sense  of  the  word. 

Marjory  wanted  to  know  more  about  the  dam  in 
Arizona,  and  especially  she  wanted  to  get  at  the 


THE   LIGHT  203 

other  side  of  this  tragic  love  affair — this  bit  of  high 
tragedy  in  humble  setting.  In  art,  she  thought,  trag- 
edy has  a  way  of  being  generally  treated  nobly  and 
loftily;  but  in  life,  somehow,  it  often  seems  almost 
absurd.  Yes,  first  it  was  the  dam.  But  she  did  not 
really  care  two  straws  about  the  dam.  She  had  got 
beyond  all  such  things  as  dams  in  her  pilgrimage. 

The  Rev.  Needham  opened  up  a  conversation  about 
the  Point  with  O'Donnell.  But  he  kept  eyeing  his 
daughter,  who  leaned  against  the  railing  of  the  porch, 
her  hands  clasped  before  her.  Alfred,  despite  his 
calling,  was  a  wretched  reader  of  souls.  The  look  in 
one's  eyes  or  the  line  of  one's  lips  meant  next  to  noth- 
ing, definitely — if  only  because  these  things  might 
mean  so  bafflingly  much.  ...  If  you  actually  shed 
tears,  then  he  would  be  reasonably  sure  you  must  be 
unhappy.  Hearty  laughter  signified,  of  course,  a 
state  of  hilarity.  However,  the  Rev.  Needham's 
spirit,  with  Milton's,  took,  really,  no  middle  course. 
There  lay  an  almost  blank  chasm  between  tears  and 
laughter — although,  alas,  the  fact  of  its  being  a 
chasm  did  not  make  it  any  less  conducive  to  prickles 
in  one's  suspended  heels. 

"There's  only  one  thing,"  O'Donnell  was  observ- 
ing, " — only  one  thing  I've  got  against  this  place." 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  minister. 

"There  are  so  many  signs!" 

It  took  the  Rev.  Needham  just  a  moment  to  compre- 
hend what  was  meant.  "You  mean  the  Assembly 
notices?" 


204          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"I  suppose  that's  what  they  are.  If  you'll  pardon 
my  saying  so,  it  seems  sometimes  as  though  there's 
a  sign  on  every  tree.  One  says  you  mustn't  peel  the 
birch  bark,  and  the  next  one  announces  a  lecture  on 
such  and  such  a  day." 

"I'm  afraid  they  have  multiplied  the  last  few  sea- 
sons," admitted  the  minister.  "We  don't  seem  to 
notice — so  used  to  them,  I  suppose.  There  are  pic- 
nickers, you  know — come  from  other  parts —  and  we 
have  to  look  out  for  the  natural  beauty  or  it  will  be  all 
spoiled.  As  for  the  lecture  announcements,"  he  con- 
cluded, "the — the  church,  you  know,  has  to  keep  pace, 
nowadays.  Yes,  it — it  has  to  advertise  a  little!" 
He  spoke  almost  glibly,  and  sighed;  but  quite 
brightly,  indeed  almost  chirpily. 

Miss  Whitcom  caught  the  confession.  And  she 
hopped  down  at  once  off  Mr.  Barry's  fine  Arizona 
dam — which  diverted  water  into  a  huge  reservoir, 
thus  keeping  off  the  Needham  wolf — and  administered 
what  might  vulgarly  be  termed  a  knock-out. 

"I  should  say  it  does  have  to  advertise!  Oh,  yes, 
the  church  must  indeed  hustle  to  keep  pace!  Even 
so,  I  hear  the  attendance  is  dropping  off." 

"Marjory?"  began  her  brother-in-law  with  unhappy 
and  interrogative  vehemence.  The  low  bow,  alas, 
would  do  no  good  at  all  here.  This  woman  wag 
unspeakable.  She  struck  him  as  almost  a  monster! 
Not  that  this  was  manifest,  of  course;  it  was  merely 
the  way  she  struck  his  invisible  soul. 

"Oh,  gracious,  Alfred,  I  don't  mean  your  attend- 


THE   LIGHT  205 

ance.  I'm  not  referring  to  your  particular  church. 
I  speak  as  a  sociologist — a  biologist!"  She  laughed. 
"Yes,  I  always  try  to  consider  these  things  in  the 
broadest  sense.  And  I  don't  see  why  you  should  look 
so  shocked,  for  after  all  I'm  only  agreeing  with  you. 
Don't  you  see  I  am?  The  church  does  have  to  adver- 
tise. Has  to  stir  up  public  controversies  for  the  sake 
of  getting  itself  discussed — always  biologically  speak- 
ing, Alfred.  It  has  to  get  itself  recognized  as  a 
social  force.  That's  the  word:  a  social  force!  It 
must  be  a  little  sensational  even,  sometimes,  to  match 
the  growing  sensationalism  of  life.  What  more 
natural?  An  atmosphere  of  spry  colloquialism. 
Yes,  the  modern  church  must  compete.  Why  not 
introduce  the  movies  into  Sunday  School — ?" 

"We  haven't  yet  done  any  of  these  things,  Mar- 
jory," declared  the  Rev.  Needham  earnestly,  a  trifle 
coolly.  He  seemed  really  to  insist  upon  receiving  all 
her  shafts  personally. 

"Some  churches  do  though,"  volunteered  O'Donnell 
— and  laughed  a  little  nervously. 

Mrs.  Needham  had  been  following  the  conversation, 
glancing  first  at  one  speaker  then  at  another;  now  she 
spoke:  "Marjory,  how  do  you  ever  manage  to  keep 
track  of  everything  that's  going  on  here  in  America?" 
It  was  not  the  first  time  since  her  arrival  amongst  them 
that  Anna's  sister  had  amazed  her  with  a  grasp  of 
home  affairs — often  with  flashes  of  vision  which  had 
been  closed  to  her  before. 

"Oh,"  replied  Marjory  with  pleasant  lightness,  "but 


206         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

you  see  such  demonstrations  as  these  exude  an  influ- 
ence— it's  a  little  like  the  wireless.  One  feels  their 
thrill  all  around  the  earth." 

"Besides,"  interposed  O'Donnell  quite  seriously, 
"you  know  Tahulamaji's  awfully  advanced." 

"Is  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Needham  guilelessly,  turning 
towards  him. 

"Oh,  tremendously,"  he  assured  her.  "As  I  make 
it  out  Queen  Tess  was  one  of  the  most  advanced 
women  of  her  time.  I  tell  you,  things  move  in  Tahul- 
amaji!" 

Mrs.  Needham  had  not  hitherto  felt,  as  she  inde- 
finitely put  it  to  herself,  very  well  acquainted  with 
this  travelling  man  friend  of  her  sister's.  Suddenly 
she  found  herself  holding  the  centre  of  the  stage  with 
him.  It  amounted  to  a  little  thrill. 

"I  suppose,  after  all,  things  aren't  so  differnt  there 
— conditions,  should  I  say?" 

"Well,"  hedged  O'Donnell,  beginning  to  perceive 
that  he  had  entered  somewhat  dangerous  waters.  He 
glanced  at  Miss  Whitcom,  who  merely  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  which  seemed  equivalent  to  an  assurance 
that,  having  involved  himself  unnecessarily  in  her  be- 
half, he  might  just  flounder  along,  so  far  as  she  was 
concerned,  until  kingdom  come. 

"Maybe,"  suggested  the  minister's  wife  with  a 
dart  of  genuine  brilliance,  "the  churches  do  all  those 
things  in  Tahulamaji!"  Would  it  not  seem  to  explain 
Marjory's  being  so  uncannily  well  informed? 

The  Rev.  Needham  inwardly  fidgeted.     He  felt  he 


THE  LIGHT  207 

ought  to  be  in  the  forefront  of  the  discussion,  defend- 
ing his  cloth.  But  suddenly  he  seemed,  within, 
sadly  and  impotently,  to  have  nothing  to  say. 
There  were  times  when  he  felt  he  didn't  possess  a 
single  honest  prejudice  any  more,  or  hold  one  single 
irrefragable  opinion.  What  a  fortunate  thing  for  the 
soul  is  its  kind  bulwark  of  flesh! 

Anna's  suggestion  at  length  stirred  Miss  Whitcom, 
however.  "Oh,  no,"  she  said  quietly,  "they  don't." 

"Still,"  O'Donnell  objected,  "you  told  me  the 
Queen  was  incorrigibly  modern,  and  you  said  she 
adored  the  movies." 

"Oh,  we're  modern,"  replied  Marjory  with  an 
ungodly  smirk.  "Yes,  we're  modern  enough  in  Tah- 
ulamaji.  I  may  say  we're  quite  in  the  van  of  civiliza- 
tion. We're  so  modern  that  we  haven't  any  churches. 
So  how  could  we  advertise?" 

"No  churches,  Marjory?"  queried  her  brother-in- 
law.  "But  you  seem  to  forget — " 

"Well,  at  least  nothing  you'd  call  a  church,  I'm 
sure,  Alfred — outside  of  what  the  foreigners  have 
imported,  that  is.  A  few  little  rude  native  altars. 
.  .  .  That's  all.  You  know,  'when  two  or  three  are 
gathered  together'.  .  .  .  It's — well,  I've  sometimes 
felt  it's  the  spirit  that  counts  in  Tahulamaji,  when  it 
comes  to  matters  of  religion.  Everything's  very, 
very  simple.  We  really  haven't  time  to  do  it  the 
grand  way,  even  if  we  knew  how." 

They  hadn't  time  for  church  in  Tahulamaji!  The 
awful  question  which  now  wracked  the  soul  of  the 


208         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

minister  was:  If  they  hadn't  time  for  church,  what 
had  they  time  for?  A  dimly  terrifying  curiosity 
assailed  him.  The  Rev.  Needham  had  read  vague 
things  about  the  people  of  the  tropics.  And  a  flush 
overspread  his  lined,  worried  face. 

Yes,  Marjory  was  an  odd  sheep,  if  not  a  black  one. 
Perhaps  she  could  hardly  be  called  a  black  one, 
though  there  were  certainly  times  when  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham  saw  her  as  through  smoked  glasses.  Anyway, 
an  odd  sheep  she  certainly  was.  She  did  not  seem  to 
belong  in  the  herd  at  all — let  alone  the  family!  The 
rest  were  all  quiet,  sensible,  orthodox.  But  about 
everything  Marjory  said  or  did  there  was  something 
unorthodox,  something  wickedly  theatrical.  What  a 
past  she  had  had!  Just  think  of  it!  Just  think, 
for  instance,  of  spending  five  whole  years  of  one's 
life  in  a  place  like  Tahulamaji!  Well,  the  ways  of 
God  were  unsearchable.  So,  it  seemed,  were  the  ways 
of  His  satanic  opponent.  The  reason  she  seemed  dif- 
ferent from  themselves  must  be,  fundamentally,  that 
she  had  had  a  past.  But  why  had  she  had  a  past? 
Yes,  the  minister's  speculations  always  must  termin- 
ate with  the  knottiest  question  raised  and  unanswered. 
It  seemed  a  part  of  his  destiny. 

And  meanwhile,  there  stood  Louise  and  Lynndal, 
not  six  feet  apart,  yet  never  meeting  each  other's 
look;  never  speaking.  How  unpremeditated  and 
tragic!  He  had  come  all  the  way  from  Arizona,  and 
now  they  had  nothing  to  say  to  each  other.  Louise, 
leaning  wretchedly  against  the  railing,  seemed,  just 


THE   LIGHT  209 

now,  able  to  realize  nothing  clearly.  The  episode  on 
the  beach  had  confused  her.  She  felt  herself  baffled. 
As  for  Barry's  state  of  mind,  that,  also,  was  con- 
siderably cloudy.  It  had  happened — the  inconceiv- 
able, the  impossible — and  it  was  now  over.  Yet  was 
it  really  over?  In  just  a  swift  moment  like  this 
had  all  his  dreams  been  broken?  It  seemed  incred- 
ible: he  could  not  believe  it.  He  tried  to  reassure 
himself,  endeavoured  to  keep  hope  alight.  Some- 
thing wise  and  still,  deep  in  his  heart,  counseled 
patience.  It  might  be  she  was  only  confused:  it 
seemed  strange  to  her,  having  suddenly  a  reality  like 
this  in  place  of  her  dreams.  Louise  was  a  dreamer 
— he  knew  that.  And  what  might  be  going  on  inside 
her  wayward  little  head,  who  could  guess?  So  far 
Barry  had  only  distinguished  himself  as  a  wizard  of 
the  burning  sands.  He  was  a  man  who  could  make 
deserts  bloom  like  the  rose.  Yet  who  could  say  but 
perhaps  he  knew  a  little,  too,  about  the  subtler  bloom 
of  a  woman's  heart?  Patience,  he  argued  within 
himself.  It  might  be  she  was  only  puzzled,  and  that 
she  still  loved  him  in  spite  of  the  thing  that  had  hap- 
pened. He  would  be  patient  a  little  while.  If  it 
turned  out  at  last  that  there  was  no  hope,  why,  then  he 
would  go  back  to  the  desert  again.  That  was  all. 


IT  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  Leslie  and  Hilda 
emerged  from  the  woods  with  their  supply  of 
roasting  sticks.  They  had  gone  about  their  task 
in  the  most  leisurely  fashion,  mutually  animated  by  a 
curious  half  complacent  acceptance  of  each  other's 
presence.  Merely  being  together  had  become  such  a 
complete  yet  informal  delight  that  neither  of  them 
stopped  to  analyse  it  at  all.  And  yet,  if  their  hands 
chanced  to  brush,  or,  as  happened  once  when  a  bee 
threatened,  she  laid  her  hand  a  little  clutchingly  on  his 
shoulder,  the  emotion  quickened.  They  hadn't  much 
to  say  to  each  other,  although  a  good  deal  of  talk, 
such  as  it  was,  passed  between  them.  Neither  could 
remember  afterward  anything  that  was  said.  And 
all  they  had  intrinsically  to  show  for  their  afternoon 
was  an  armful  of  roasting  sticks. 

"Where  shall  we  keep  them  until  it's  time?"  asked 
Hilda,  as  they  tramped  through  the  sand  and  up  to 
the  screened  porch. 

He  gazed  dreamily  off  to  sea. 

"Les?"  she  repeated,  quaintly  drawling. 

"Hm?" 

"What  shall  we  do  with  the  sticks?     Leave  them 
210 


THE   LIGHT  211 

here?  Or  do  you  want  to  take  them  down  where  the 
fire's  going  to  be?" 

"Oh,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  don't  care."  And  he 
let  himself  down  slowly  on  to  the  steps.  "I  feel  so 
dreamy  I  can  hardly  move.  Did  you  ever  feel  like 
that,  Hilda?" 

"Yes,  many  times,"  she  replied,  sitting  down  one 
step  above  him  and  clasping  her  knees.  Her  canvas 
hat  was  tossed  aside,  and  the  hair  on  her  forehead 
was  a  little  damp.  There  ensued  a  long,  drowsy  sil- 
ence. At  length  she  said:  "I  hope  we  cut  enough, 
Les." 

He  was  still  gazing  off  across  the  sea,  which  the 
declining  sun  was  making  flash  in  a  splendid  and 
quite  dazzling  way.  It  was  merely  a  warm,  hypnotic 
stare,  and  he  really  saw  nothing  at  all;  yet  he  was 
faintly  conscious  of  things — above  all,  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  of  simple  young  happiness. 

"Les?" 

"Hm?" 

"You  do  think  we  cut  enough,  don't  you?" 

"Sure,  I  guess  so." 

"It  would  be  so  funny,"  she  laughed,  "if  there 
didn't  happen  to  be  enough  to  go  round  and  some  had 
to  just  sit  and  watch  the  others  eat!" 

"Most  of  them  do  that  anyway,  don't  they?"  he 
murmured.  "I  mean  they  sit  there  and  watch  you 
work  like  a  slave,  and  then  swallow  everything  that's 
poked  in  front  of  their  mouths.  I  guess  all  roasts 
are  alike." 


212          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Well,  anyhow,  we  won't  feed  any  of  the  lazy- 
bones tonight,  Les.  We'll  eat  our  own!  I'll  feed 
you,  and  you  feed  me.  Will  you?" 

He  glanced  up  at  her  and  smiled.  Then  he  slid 
down  a  step  and  lay  back,  resting  his  head  against 
the  step  on  which  she  sat,  a  little  to  one  side. 

"You  look  quite  different  upside  down,"  he  volun- 
teered. 

"How,  Les?" 

"Oh — I  don't  know.     Your  eyes  look  so  funny!" 

"Yours  do,  too!" 

He  thrust  a  sun-browned  arm  over  his  eyes  and 
crossed  his  legs.  It  was  she  who  now  gazed  off  over 
the  blazing  waves.  Not  exactly  a  classic  tableau. 
You  would  never  mistake  them  for  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
And  yet  our  little  ubiquitous  friend  Eros  viewed  the 
picture  not  without  a  smouldering,  an  incipient  satis- 
faction. 

Louise  came  out  of  the  living  room  dopr  on  to  the 
porch.  She  could  see  Hilda's  head  and  shoulders, 
and  she  crossed  over  to  the  screen  door  at  the  top  of 
the  flight.  Hilda  looked  round  quickly. 

"Oh,  hello,  Lou!" 

Louise  nodded,  and  made  motions  of  salutation 
with  her  lips.  There  was  no  sound,  however.  She 
cleared  her  throat — tried  to  smile. 

Leslie  drew  himself  hurriedly  into  a  more  dig- 
nified posture.  "Hello,"  he  smiled,  rising  a  trifle 
uneasily. 

"Just  see  how  many  we  got!"  cried  Hilda,  jump- 


THE   LIGHT  213 

ing  up  and  gathering  the  roasting  sticks  in  her  arms. 

Louise  stood  there  looking  down  through  the 
screen  door.  "You  certainly  got  enough!"  she  ex- 
claimed, a  little  shrilly — the  result  of  her  trying  so 
desperately  to  be  perfectly  natural. 

"Well,"  Hilda  went  on,  "you  see  I  kept  finding  lit- 
tle trees  so  straight  we  simply  couldn't  pass  them 
hy.  And  Leslie  just  kept  cutting.  See  how  sharp 
they  are?" 

Leslie,  as  though  availing  himself  of  the  invita- 
tion (regardless  of  its  not  having  been  exactly  ad- 
dressed to  him)  placed  a  finger  on  one  of  the 
smoothly  whittled  points  and  withdrew  it  with  a 
small,  oddly  juvenile  howl  of  mock  distress.  The 
wounded  finger  went  into  his  mouth.  Leslie  was 
certainly  not  at  his  ease. 

Suddenly  Hilda  ran  up  close  to  her  sister  and 
asked,  in  a  very  low  voice:  "Have  you  been  cry- 
ing?" 

Louise's  heart  jumped.     "Why,  no,"  she  replied. 

"It  must  be  the  sun  in  your  eyes,"  said  Hilda. 

"Yes,  it  must  be."  And  she  turned  away  from 
them  and  sat  in  the  same  chair  her  mother  had  oc- 
cupied when  she  had  demanded  of  Alfred  if  he 
thought  she  might  be  growing  old.  Louise  rocked 
slowly,  just  as  her  mother  had  rocked.  Yet  her 
thoughts  rushed  madly  to  and  fro.  There  was  a  bat- 
tle of  ghosts  in  her  heart. 

Aunt  Marjie  came  out  breezily,  accompanied  by 


214          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

Mr.  O'Donnell,  who  was  about  to  take  his  departure. 
The  parent  Needhams  stood  side  by  side  in  the  cot- 
tage doorway,  hospitably  bowing,  but  seeming  to  real- 
ize, with  a  kind  of  fineness,  that  they  should  come  no 
further,  and  that  the  very  last  rites  must  be  per- 
formed by  the  lady  for  whose  sake  he  had  been 
asked. 

Mr.  O'Donnell  extended  a  hand  of  farewell  to 
Louise,  who  rose. 

"Oh,  are  you  going?"  she  asked. 

"Yes — simply  have  to.  They'll  decide  at  the 
Elmbrook  that  I'm  lost,  strayed,  or  stolen  and  will 
have  a  search  party  out!" 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  O'Donnell,"  said  Hilda,  prettily 
holding  out  her  hand.  She  was  deliciously  un- 
spoiled. 

He  held  her  hand  a  moment,  looked  from  her  over 
to  Leslie,  then  at  the  bunch  of  sharpened  sticks. 
And  he  brazenly  winked  at  Miss  Whitcom,  who, 
glancing  discreetly  in  the  direction  of  her  elder 
niece,  remarked  that  there  was  likely  to  be  a  gor- 
geous sunset. 

O'Donnell  and  Leslie  shook  hands.  "See  you 
again  tonight?"  asked  the  boy  politely. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  Mrs.  Needham  called  out.  "He's 
coming  over  to  the  roast." 

"You'll  have  a  devil — I  mean,  it's  very  dark  in 
the  woods,"  said  Leslie.  He  was  quite  horrified  at 
the  slip,  and  hurried  on,  expressing  quick  generosity 
by  way  of  gaining  cover — a  generosity  more  gener- 


THE   LIGHT  215 

ous,  no  doubt,  than  he  had  at  first  contemplated. 
"You'd  better  let  me  come  and  light  you  through." 

O'Donnell  patted  the  lad's  shoulder  in  a  very 
kindly  manner,  just  as  he  might  pat  an  obliging  bell- 
hop in  one  of  the  hotels  on  his  route,  who  volunteered 
to  get  him  up  for  a  five  o'clock  train. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said.     "Don't  you  bother." 

"No  bother  at  all,"  replied  Leslie,  suddenly  seem- 
ing to  grow  quite  enthusiastic  over  the  idea  of  light- 
ing Mr.  O'Donnell  through  from  Crystalia.  His  eye 
encountered  Hilda's.  It  was  finally  agreed,  and 
O'Donnell  departed,  in  the  very  best  sort  of  spirits. 

When  he  had  disappeared,  the  Rev.  and  Mrs. 
Needham  strolled  out  on  to  the  porch.  The  Rev. 
Needham  was  slowly  gaining  back  his  ruffled  poise. 
He  and  O'Donnell  had  been  smoking  some  more  of 
the  good  cigars,  and  Marjory  hadn't  ventured  any- 
thing so  very  revolutionary  since  the  remark  about 
not  having  time  for  church.  He  slipped  an  arm,  just 
a  tiny  bit  stiffly,  about  his  wife's  waist.  He  didn't 
exactly  cuddle  her;  still,  thus  fortified,  he  looked 
across  at  his  sister-in-law  with  an  inner  mild  defiance. 

"Well,  I  must  run  along,"  said  Leslie,  drawing  a 
deep  and  very  leisurely  breath. 

"Do  you  have  to  go  so  soon?"  Hilda  stepped  down 
toward  him. 

He  nodded,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  drew 
them  out  again,  was  painfully  conscious  that  Louise 
was  sitting  up  there  on  the  porch. 

Hilda  came  down  another  step  and  stood  close  to 


216          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

him.  "It's  awfully  early,  Les."  Then  a  brilliant 
idea  sent  her  unexpectedly  scurrying  up  the  steps 
and  on  to  the  porch.  She  whispered  something  in 
her  mother's  ear,  upon  which  Mrs.  Needham  looked 
somewhat  startled  and  shook  her  head.  She  and 
Eliza  had  planned  so  carefully.  Leslie  seemed  al- 
most like  one  of  the  family;  but  what  if  there 
shouldn't  be  enough? 

Hilda  tossed  it  off  gallantly.  She  tripped  back 
down  the  steps  and  said  she  would  go  with  Leslie  as 
far  as  the  choke-cherry  tree. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Leslie  politely  to  the  porch. 

"Good-bye,  Leslie,"  said  the  Rev.  and  Mrs.  Need- 
ham  in  unison. 

And  it  never  occurred  to  them  as  odd  that  their 
younger  should  be  accompanying  Leslie  as  far  as  the 
choke-cherry  tree.  Oh,  the  incredible  blindness  of 
parents!  Oh,  what  strangers  one's  children  really 
are,  after  all!  And  yet,  how  could  it  be  otherwise? 
Quaint  souls — perhaps  they  did  not  even  remember, 
now  Lynndal  had  come,  that  it  was  to  the  choke- 
cherry  tree  their  elder  had  been  wont  to  go.  .  .  . 

Louise  called  out:  "  'Bye,  Les."  She  was  rock- 
ing more  vigorously.  Her  hands  were  clasped  be- 
hind her  head  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed.  There 
was  a  curious  wild  look  in  her  eyes.  Aunt  Marjie 
thought  her  actually  handsome  just  then. 

At  the  choke-cherry  tree  Leslie  and  Hilda  indulged 
in  a  very  desultory  leave-taking.  Yet  their  talk  was 


THE   LIGHT  217 

utterly  devoid  of  anything  either  poetic  or  romantic. 

"You'll  get  your  shoe  all  full  of  sand,  Les."  He 
was  scuffing  it  mechanically  back  and  forth  in  the 
dust  of  the  roadway. 

"I  don't  care."   ' 

"I  hate  to  have  sand  in  my  shoes." 

But  he  laughed:     "I  don't  know  what  it  is  not  to." 

Then  he  patted  the  bark  of  the  choke-cherry  tree 
and  ran  his  palm  up  and  down  it,  as  though  he  were 
a  lumberman  and  knew  all  about  trees.  And  he 
gazed  up  at  the  tiny  ripening  berries.  Suddenly  he 
stopped  patting  the  trunk  and  turned,  leaning  his 
back  against  it.  He  stood  there,  confused  a  little, 
tapping  first  one  heel  and  then  the  other  against  a 
projecting  root;  for  his  exploring  hand,  as  it  chanced, 
had  encountered  a  certain  recently  carved  set  of 
initials  within  a  rude  heart.  All  that  was  so  long 
ago! 

"What  shall  we  do  about  the  sticks?"  asked  Hilda. 
"Shall  we  have  papa  carry  them  down  to  the  fire?" 

"No,  I'll  carry  them  down.  I'll  come  over  and 
get  them." 

"But  you're  going  to  light  Mr.  O'Donnell  through 
from  Crystalia,"  she  reminded  him — then  waited 
breathlessly. 

He  didn't  disappoint  her.  "Please  come  along — 
won't  you?" 

"You  mean  when  you  go  to  light  him?" 

"Yes." 

"You  really  want  me  to?" 


218         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

He  nodded. 

A  man  was  approaching  them.  He  came  round  a 
bend  in  the  road.  It  was  Lynndal  Barry. 

"I've  been  for  a  little  stroll,"  he  explained. 
"These  woods  are  certainly  wonderful!" 

"Yes1,  we  like  them,"  replied  Hilda,  in  a  very  po- 
lite but  at  the  same  time  very  friendly  tone.  She 
was  just  a  tiny  bit  afraid  of  the  man  who  had  come 
so  far  to  marry  her  sister — not  because  Mr.  Barry 
was  the  kind  of  man  who  spreads  about  him  an  aura 
of  awe,  but  because  Hilda  knew  there  was  something 
the  matter.  Yes,  something  seemed  to  be  wrong. 
But  Hilda  did  not  guess  how  wrong. 

"Were  you  going  back  to  the  cottage?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  thought  I  would." 

"Then  I'll  walk  back  with  you,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Well,  good-bye,"  said  Leslie. 

"Good-bye,  Les.     You'll  come  for  me?" 

"Yes."   ' 

"What  time?" 

"Whenever  you  say." 

"Right  after  dinner?" 

"All  right." 

"So  long." 

"So  long,  Hilda." 

He  departed,  scuffing  foolishly  and  happily  in 
the  sand. 

"We  were  cutting  sticks  for  the  roast,"  explained 
Hilda  as  she  walked  back  beside  Lynndal  toward 
Beachcrest. 


THE   LIGHT  219 

"It  will  be  jolly,"  he  remarked.  "You  know,  I've 
never  been  to  one  of  these  beach  roasts  in  my  life." 

"You  never  have?" 

"No.  And  I've  looked  forward  to  the  beach 
roasts  ever  since — well,  ever  since  I  knew  I  was  go- 
ing to  be  up  here  this  summer." 

"You  see,  you  came  just  in  time!" 

"Yes,  didn't  I?" 

"The  mid-summer  Assembly  Roast  is  the  biggest 
roast  of  all." 

"I'm  in  luck,"  he  murmured. 

And  so  they  chatted  together  until  Beachcrest  was 
reached. 


ON  the  porch,  where  Miss  Whitcom  had  been 
regaling  her  relations  with,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, a  rather  sensational  account  of  how 
the   inhabitants   of  Tahulamaji   had  formerly  been 
cannibals,  the  absence  of  Lynndal  Barry  was  noticed. 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  the  Rev.  Needham,  with 
a  quick  inward  flash  of  nervousness. 

Louise  was  assailed  by  a  great  longing  to  come 
out,  wildly  and  fully,,  with  some  superb  flow  of 
words  which  should  ease  the  burden  of  her  heart. 
It  seemed  urgent,  in  fact,  that  she  explain  his  ab- 
sence. Aunt  Marjie  braced  herself  for  an  expected 
scene.  But  just  then  the  missing  man  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance. Hilda  preceded  him  up  the  steps.  In- 
stead of  crying  out  that  her  heart  was  breaking,  Lou- 
ise felt  suddenly  an  insane  desire  to  laugh.  Hilda 
was  leading  Lynndal  back,  as  though  to  compensate 
for  leading  Leslie  off! 

"Well,  well,"  began  the  Rev.  Needham,  with  all 
the  hospitable  bluffness  he  could  summon.  "|We 
were  talking  about  you!" 

" — Wondering  where  you  were,"  continued  Mrs. 
Needham. 

220 


THE   LIGHT  221 

" — Fearing  you  might  have  embarked  for  the 
wicked  city  of  Beulah,"  Marjory  gaily  carried  it  on, 
"where  young  men  are  not  safe,  and  the  song  of  the 
siren  never  dies  away!" 

The  Rev.  Needham  looked  startled,  then  rather 
grim,  then  again  just  vaguely  uneasy.  Barry  ex- 
plained that  he  had  been  strolling  in  the  woods. 

"No  danger  of  getting  lost,  at  any  rate,"  declared 
Miss  Whitcom,  "since  the  church  advertises  so  effi- 
ciently!" 

There  promised  to  be  a  rather  pained  silence;  but 
Mrs.  Needham  rose,  smoothed  down  the  front  of  her 
skirt,  and  announced  that  she  must  go  and  dress  for 
dinner. 

"Ah,  yes,"  lamented  her  sister  cheerfully,  "one 
must  dress,  even  in  the  wilderness." 

"Oh,  we  don't  really  make  anything  of  it,  Marjie. 
Only  it  sort  of  rests  you — to  make  a  change." 

"Dress!  Isn't  it  absurd?  Yet  how  we  dote  on  it! 
In  this  respect  we  aren't,  after  all,  civilized  to  any 
dangerous  degree.  Why,  in  Tahulamaji — " 

"Marjie,  there  isn't  a  bit  of  use  of  your  chang- 
ing. You  look  lovely." 

"Thanks,"  replied  her  sister.     "Still,  one  must." 

"We  all  do  just  as  we  please  up  here  in  the  woods, 
you  know." 

"Ah,  but  the  men,  the  men,"  whispered  Miss  Whit- 
com with  delicious  vulgarity  behind  her  hand. 
"And  after  all,  we  must  have  some  regard  for  the 
conventions."  Her  tone  was  just  a  little  pointed. 


222          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Yes,  Marjie,  I  suppose,  in  a  way.  .  .  ."  Anna 
admitted. 

"And  then — there's  the  church,"  Miss  Whitcom 
persisted,  almost  brutally  whimsical. 

"The  church?" 

"Since  it  tries  so  very  hard  to  keep  abreast  of 
the  times — one  might  say,  a  la  mode!" 

The  sisters  went  into  the  cottage.     Louise  rose. 

"I  must  dress  too,"  she  announced,  crossing 
quickly  to  the  door. 

"I  like  that  gown  ever  so  much,"  said  Lynndal. 

She  turned  and  cast  him  a  rueful  glance.  "Thank 
you.  But  I  really  must  change."  She  smiled 
faintly.  The  high  colour  had  faded,  and  her  eyes 
had  lost  their  look  of  splendid  wildness. 

"Wait  for  me!"  cried  Hilda,  making  a  tomboy 
dive  for  the  door,  and  capturing  her  sister's  waist, 
hanging  on  her  affectionately  as  they  went  in  to- 
gether. 

"At  any  rate,  we  don't  have  to  dress,"  laughed  the 
Rev.  Needham  quite  jovially. 

"You're  sure?  I'd  begun  to  get  rather  scared. 
You  see  I  didn't  bring  out  anything.  .  .  ." 

The  minister  laughed  again.  "No,  the  men  up 
here  are  more  sensible." 

"What  did  Miss  Whitcom  mean,"  asked  Barry 
after  a  short  pause,  "when  she  spoke  the  way  she  did 
about  the  church?" 

"The  church,  Barry?" 

"Something  about  it  being  a  la  mode." 


THE   LIGHT  223 

"Oh,  I — the  fact  is,  Barry,  I  don't  quite  know  ray- 
self.  I'm  sure  she  didn't  mean  anything  in  partic- 
ular. That  is,  you  see  Marjory  has  a  kind  of  playful 
way  of  speaking.  .  .  .  You  have  to  know  her  well  to 
understand  her." 

"She  seems  like  a  very  jolly  sort." 

"Yes,  yes.  She's  ever  so  jolly.  Sometimes  I 
feel.  .  .  .  Well,  of  course,  every  one  has  their  times 
of  being  jollier  than  at  other  times,  don't  they?" 
There  seemed  something  here  appealing,  a  little  pa- 
thetic, even — as  though  Alfred  Needham,  if  he  only 
could  one  day  get  his  heels  down,  would  turn  out 
really  very  jolly  himself. 

The  conversation  was  growing  thin,  a  little  vague. 
It  was  a  relief  to  have  the  talk  drift  into  other  and 
more  concrete  channels. 

"Well,"  remarked  Barry,  "just  before  I  left  for 
the  East  we  got  the  final  engineering  report  on  the 
new  San  Pedro  reservoir.  It  looks  pretty  good  to 
me." 

"Something  to  open  up  a  whole  new  area?" 

"Yes,  that's  it.  By  building  another  dam — " 
And  he  explained  the  rather  technical  proposition. 

"A  good  deal  like  the  Santa  Cruz,  isn't  it?"  asked 
the  minister. 

"Yes,  a  good  deal  like  that.  You  can  be  pretty 
sure  of  the  water  near  the  source,  but  of  course  the 
farther  downstream  you  go,  the  less  dependable  the 
flow  is.  Sometimes  there  will  be  floods,  and  then 
again  sometimes  the  bed  will  go  entirely  dry." 


224          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  Rev.  Needham  meditatively, 
and  almost  as  though  in  these  fluxes  of  the  Arizona 
rivers  he  recognized  a  subtle  resemblance  to  life's 
fluxes  which  kept  him  ever  hopping.  "Let's  see,"  he 
continued,  "do  I  own  anything  just  there,  in  the  San 
Pedro  valley?" 

"You  certainly  do,"  replied  Barry,  and  he  drew 
a  map  out  of  his  pocket,  spread  it  on  his  knee, 
hitched  his  chair  a  little  closer,  and  traced  the  Need- 
ham  holdings  with  his  pencil.  "This  strip  in 
Cochise  County — that  little  triangular  patch  there 
where  Final  and  Pima  join.  ...  It  ought  to  add 
quite  a  bit  to  your  income,  when  the  deal  is  really 
swung." 

The  Rev.  Needham  sighed  appreciatively.  "I 
wouldn't  have  any  of  these  opportunities  if  it  weren't 
for  you  being  right  there  on  the  spot  to  look  out  for 
things." 

"Oh,  I  do  what  I  can,"  said  Barry  quietly.  He 
folded  up  the  map  and  put  it  away.  "You  see  I'm 
very  much  interested  in  Arizona — new  settlers  com- 
ing all  the  time — new  homes  under  way.  .  .  ."  His 
eyes  were  dimly  wistful.  "Pretty  soon  we'll  be  get- 
ting another  man  in  Congress.  .  .  ." 

"Barry,  do  you  suppose  later  on  you'll  be  getting 
into  politics?" 

"Politics?"  He  laughed  it  away  a  little,  yet  at 
the  same  time  clung  to  it,  too.  "Oh — you  never  can 
tell."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  as  Louise  could  have 
told  her  father,  the  spring  of  a  secret  ambition  had 


THE   LIGHT  225 

been  touched.  "Just  now  there's  too  much  to  do, 
developing — opening  up  the  country.  .  .  .  There 
are  plans  in  the  air  for  another  big  power  plant  near 
Yuma.  By  the  way,  I  can  get  you  some  shares  there, 
if  you  like.  As  for  politics.  .  .  ." 

The  Rev.  Needham  folded  his  arms  with  quiet 
pride.  This  was  a  man  after  his  very  heart.  Per- 
haps he  would  be  a  Representative  at  Washington 
some  day.  Perhaps  he  would  be  Governor  some 
day.  And  in  the  meantime,  here  he  was,  coming 
right  into  the  family!  No,  the  Rev.  Needham  could 
not  have  been  any  prouder  of  a  son. 

Upstairs  all  the  ladies  were  in  the  midst  of  their 
itoilettes.  "0,  world!  0,  life!  0,  time!" 

"Are  you  girls  putting  on  low  neck?"  demanded 
Miss  Whitcom  in  her  shrill  way. 

"Lou  is,"  replied  Hilda.  "She  always  dresses 
when  there's  anything  to  go  to,  but  I  never  do." 
She  sighed.  "Just  think,  Aunt  Marjie,  I  haven't  got 
a  single  low  neck!" 

"Cheer  up,  little  one!"  the  aunt  called  over  the 
three-quarters  partition.  "Your  time's  coming.  I 
don't  see — achu! — what  you  do  about  sunburn  up 
here!  Achu!" 

She  was  deluging  her  neck  and  face  with  powder. 
Fortunately  they  were  only  going  to  a  roast,  and  there 
wouldn't  be  much  light,  especially  after  the  fire  be- 
gan to  die  down.  Then  she  started  slightly  and 
frowned.  Why  on  earth  should  one  be  concerned 


226          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

about  a  little  sunburn?  And  yet — there  was  a  thrill 
in  the  question,  too.  Miss  Whitcom  admitted  she 
never  would  have  been  so  concerned  in  the  old  days. 
These  were  new  days.  After  all,  Barrett  seemed  the 
only  reality  there  was  left.  Yet  there  had  seemed  so 
many  realities  to  begin  with. 

"Louise,  what's  the  matter?"  whispered  Hilda,  as 
she  slipped  a  fresh  jumper  over  her  head  and  began 
tying  its  lace. 

"What  makes  you  think  there's  anything  the  mat- 
ter?" asked  her  sister  thickly. 

"I  know  there  is!  You  don't  act  like  yourself  at 
all.  Is  it — is  there  something  about  you  and  Mr. 
Barry?" 

Louise's  throat  ached.  She  did  not  start,  nor  did 
she  flush  and  cry  out:  "How  did  you  guess?"  Her 
throat  ached;  it  ached  cruelly. 

"Lou,  dear — tell  me  what's  the  matter!"  implored 
Hilda,  throwing  her  arms  around  her  sister,  and  lay- 
ing her  cheek  against  the  other's  shoulder  a  moment. 

"I — I  can't,"  faltered  Louise. 

"Yes,  you  can.     I  knew  there  was  something!" 

Louise  shook  her  head  wretchedly. 

"Doesn't  he  seem  the  same?" 

"Don't,  Hilda!"     She  wriggled  nervously. 

"Louise!" 

"I — I.  .  .  ."  She  pushed  herself  free  of  an 
embrace  which  possessed,  just  now,  no  comfort. 
"Please  don't  say  anything  more.  You  mustn't." 


THE   LIGHT  227 

"Well,  I  won't,  Lou  dear.  Only  it  makes  me  feel 
bad  to  see  you  look  this  way.  And  I  know  there's 
something  the  matter." 

"No,  there  isn't,"  replied  Louise  woodenly. 

Hilda  discovered,  far  in  an  unfrequented  corner 
of  her  own  little  special  chest  of  drawers  which  had 
been  moved  in  out  of  Aunt  Marjie's  way,  a  fine  new 
scarf.  It  was  a  scarf  she  had  never  worn  before. 
Indeed,  she  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  Now  she 
remembered  it  had  been  put  away  carefully,  with 
the  understanding  that  it  was  to  be  brought  out 
for  some  very  special  occasion.  Her  heart  told  her 
the  golden  hour  had  come.  Her  heart  was  so  full  of 
news  that  it  began  singing. 

"We're  going  to  light  Mr.  O'Donnell  through  to 
the  roast!" 

"Who?"  asked  Louise.  She  spoke  impulsively, 
as  all  the  Needhams  were  in  the  habit  of  speaking. 
Had  she  thought  a  moment  she  would  not  have  asked. 

Hilda  told  her,  with  a  thrill  of  most  abundant 
happiness.  She  hugged  her  happiness;  she  did  not 
know  what  it  cost  her  sister. 

Louise  braced  herself.  The  evening  had  to  be 
got  through  somehow.  But  after  tonight — then 
what?  Her  father  would  be  expecting  Lynndal  to 
come  to  him  to  talk  it  over.  And  how  terrible! 
Would  it,  perhaps — her  thoughts  were  flying  helter- 
skelter — would  it  perhaps  make  some  fatal  differ- 
ence in  the  Western  business?  Would  Lynndal 


228          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

continue  to  look  after  the  interests,  just  as  before? 
Could  any  one  reasonably  expect  the  relations  all 
around  to  remain  quite  what  they  had  been? 

Remorse  stole  dully  over  her.  She  had  come  be- 
tween her  father  and  his  friend.  Could  he  forgive 
her?  And  could  her  father?  Why  had  she  done 
such  a  thing?  But  was  it  final?  All  those  letters. 
...  At  length  he  was  here  .  .  .  had  come  so 
far  .  .  .  and  what  had  she  done?  In  the  morning 
she  had  gone  to  meet  her  lover.  It  had  seemed  fine 
and  romantic.  She  had  told  Leslie  they  must  be  only 
friends  now.  It  had  all  appeared  quite  easy  and 
rather  delightful.  Then  Lynndal  had  come,  and  .  .  . 
and  then  what?  What  was  it  that  had  happened?  It 
had  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  give  herself 
up.  ... 

If  only  she  could  have  a  sudden  change  of  heart! 
One  read  of  such  things,  now  and  then.  If  only 
she  could  rush  joyously  down  to  him,  where  he  sat 
talking  with  her  father,  and  tell  him  she  did  love 
him!  But  after  all,  she  could  only  go  on  dressing, 
miserably  dressing. 

"Do  I  look  all  right,  Lou?"  asked  Hilda,  much 
as  Louise  had  put  the  same  question  to  her  at  dawn. 

Her  sister  told  the  plain  truth  in  a  syllable.  Yes. 
She  certainly  did.  Of  course  a  jumper,  even  with 
so  fine  a  new  sash  under  its  collar,  wasn't  quite  as  nice 
as  low  neck.  But  Hilda  was  undeniably  charming. 
Louise  felt  a  sudden  elemental  pang  of  jealousy. 

Hilda's  heart  was  in  a  great  flutter.     She  liked  Les- 


THE  "LIGHT  229 

lie  ever  so  well.  She  didn't  know  any  other  boy  she 
liked  so  well  as  Leslie.  Have  a  care,  little  Hilda. 
Ah,  have  a  care!  Your  age  protects  you.  But  later, 
when  you  have  substituted  loving  for  liking,  things 
will  be  different.  When  Louise  was  your  age  she  let 
Harold  Gates  kiss  her  a  great  many  times.  She  let 
him  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  when  he  had  to 
leave  her  on  account  of  the  girl  he  had  brought  along 
with  him  to  the  picnic,  she  did  not  care — very  much. 
Or  at  least  she  did  not  care  very  long.  But  now  see, 
Hilda.  Your  sister  has  become  a  woman.  She  has 
learned  to  love,  and  play  quite  fearlessly  with  love. 
But  love  is  a  terrible  thing,  and  your  sister  is  not 
very  wise. 

Have  a  care,  Hilda!  As  you  value  what  is  pre- 
cious and  fine  in  life — beware!  Oh,  Hilda,  beware, 
when  the  heart  has  matured,  that  you  do  not  reap  a 
whirlwind  of  ghosts.  .  .  . 


AT  dinner  Miss  Whitcom  was  treated  to  an 
entrancing  account  of  the  Assembly  Roast, 
viewed  as  an  institution. 

"Of  course,"  explained  the  Rev.  Needham,  "in 
the  largest  sense  it's  a  religious  function — a  kind  of 
general  get-together,  before  the  lecture  season 
opens."  It  seemed  a  now  more  cautious  way  of 
reiterating  that  the  church  must  advertise. 

"But  you  see,"  contributed  Mrs.  Needham,  "it  was 
started  by  the  Goodmans.  He's  a  clergyman  from 
Cleveland." 

"It's  their  anniversary,"  added  Hilda. 

Thus,  piecemeal,  the  momentous  facts  came  out. 

"Anniversary?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Marjie." 

"Let's  see — how  many  is  it  this  year?"  asked  Mrs. 
Needham  turning  to  her  husband. 

"Twenty-seventh  or  twenty-eighth,  I  think,"  he 
replied. 

"Oh,  Alf,  do  you  think  the  Goodmans  have  been 
married  that  long?" 

"You  know,"  declared  Miss  Whitcom,  "all  this 
is  interesting  but  terribly  mysterious.  Thanks, 
Anna,  I've  had  the  pickles.  I'm  mystified  by  these 

230 


THE   LIGHT  231 

Goodmans  from  Cleveland.  So  I  understand  the 
Midsummer  Roast  is  in  the  nature  of  an  anniversary 
party  also?" 

"Well,  yes,"  replied  Anna  Needham.  "It  was 
started,  I  guess,  more  than  twenty  years  ago,  even 
before  we  began  coming  up  here.  There  were  only 
a  few  families  at  first.  Alf,  were  the  Goodmans  the 
first  to  begin  coming  up?" 

"Unless  it  was  Blakes,"  he  suggested. 

"But  didn't  the  Blakes  begin  coming  because  the 
Goodmans  did,  Alf?" 

"Well,  maybe  so.  Marjory,  can't  I  help  you  to  a 
little  more  of  the  lamb?" 

"No,  no,"  protested  his  sister-in-law.  "I'm  doing 
famously." 

"Alf,  Marjie  will  have  some  more  potatoes,  I'm 


sure." 


"No.  Doing  famously.  Never  mind  my  plate, 
but  do  let's  get  it  straight  about  the  Goodmans. 
Thanks,  Hilda,  I  will  have  another  biscuit.  It  all 
sounds  terribly  romantic!" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  Hilda  boldly  assured  her.  "They 
always  kiss  right  before  everybody  on  their  anniver- 
sary. And  in  the  morning — " 

"Hilda!"  cautioned  her  father,  rather  sternly. 

The  girl  endeavoured  to  conceal  her  confusion  by 
addressing  herself  very  elaborately  to  the  spreading 
of  a  biscuit. 

"Oh,  now,  Alfred,"  remonstrated  his  sister-in- 
law,  "you're  worse  than  a  war  censor!  Since  it's 


232          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

quite  apparent  the  whole  Point  knows  about  the  kiss- 
ing— Anna,  may  I  trouble  you  for  another  glass  of 
water? — why  shouldn't  I  be  admitted  to  so  very 
large  a  secret?  There's  surely  room  for  one  more, 
and  you  may  pledge  me  to  profound  secrecy  if  you 
like.  I'm  dying  to  know  what  it  is  they  do  in  the 
morning!" 

Hilda  was  gaining  back  her  nerve.  "They  run 
away  and  have  breakfast  together  at  the  hotel! 
That's  what  they  do,  Aunt  Marjie!" 

"Oh,  how  charming!" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Marjie,  they've  done  it  every  year 
since  they  were  married!" 

"They  have?  Well,  now,  I  call  that  pure  romance! 
How  coy!  How  it  must  carry  them  back!  I 
think  I'd  really  like  to  know  the  Goodmans.  There 
isn't  such  a  great  deal  of  pure  romance  available 
nowadays.  People  are  too  self-conscious." 

"You'll  meet  them  tonight,"  was  the  hope  Mrs. 
Needham  held  out.  And  then,  while  her  husband 
began  carving  fresh  slices  of  lamb,  and  since  the 
subject  of  the  Midsummer  Roast  seemed  about 
exhausted,  Anna  went  chattily  on:  "Marjie,  I  must 
say  I  like  Mr.  O'Donnell  real  well." 

"Speaking  of  pure  romance?"  her  sister  spark- 
lingly  interpolated.  "Yes,"  she  continued,  "Barrett's 
a  good  chap.  Used  to  be  a  bit  egregious,  you  know, 
in  the  old  days.  But  he's  mellowed  wonderfully. 
I — I'll  let  you  in  on  a  tremendous  secret,"  she  added, 
with  mock  breathlessness,  and  addressing  herself  to 


THE   LIGHT  233 

Alfred  behind  her  hand.  "If  he  should  happen  to  ask 
me  again — I'm  only  saying  if,  you  understand. 
..."  She  finished  eloquently  in  pantomime. 

The  Rev.  Needham  dropped  his  fork,  but  quickly 
recovered  it  and  went  on  eating.  He  had  just  told 
himself  that  no  matter  what  new  monstrosity  his  sis- 
ter-in-law might  enunciate,  he  would  magnificently  let 
it  pass.  He  would  not  appear  to  notice  it.  He  was 
a  clergyman.  There  was  a  certain  dignity  to  be 
preserved  in  spite  of  everything.  But  good  heavens, 
she  had  said  it  behind  her  hand! 

"Oh-h-h!"  said  Hilda.     She  giggled. 

"Barrett  is  an  old  peach,"  continued  Miss  Whitcom 
quite  brazenly.  "He's  stood  by  me  through  every- 
thing!" 

The  Rev.  Needham  nearly  dropped  his  fork  again. 
That  awful  word.  Everything!  And  she  could  be 
BO  damnably  cool  about  it!  Was  he  narrow  or  old- 
fashioned  to  feel  the  way  he  did?  Yet  would  not 
feeling  any  other  way  be  simply  debauching  one- 
self? Ah,  if,  instead  of  his  changing  his  own  point 
of  view,  she  might  somehow  drop  off  into  a  deep, 
painless  slumber.  .  .  .  And  never  wake.  .  .  . 

"Well,  then,"  said  Anna,  who  had  kept  perfectly 
her  head,  and  was  also  rather  thrilled,  "I  hope  he  will, 
Marjie." 

Marjory  looked  dreamily  off  through  the  open  win- 
dow. A  few  birches  caught  the  evening  light  mistily, 
and  were  dyed  a  delicate  pink  all  along  their  slim 
white  trunks.  Would  he?  Ah,  of  course!  And 


234         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

yet Well— hm?  ...    If  not,  why She 

mentally  tossed  her  head.  But  what  she  told  herself 
was  not  quite  so  haughty:  "In  that  case  I  could  hardly 
blame  anybody  but  myself.  .  .  ." 

By  this  time  it  might  be  said  that  the  edge,  at 
least,  of  hunger  was  taken  off.  All  had  eaten  quite 
heartily,  except  Louise.  But  even  Louise,  though 
she  dimly  felt  this  was  not  as  it  should  be,  had  found 
it  possible  to  do  at  least  a  little  nibbling.  Of 
course  it  would  be  out  of  the  question  to  expect  her 
to  eat  like  the  rest.  It  was  another  case  of  Richard. 
Probably  she  would  not  eat  just  like  the  rest  for  a 
good  while  to  come.  Still,  she  would  manage  to 
keep  going.  One  always  did  that  in  real  life. 

The  Rev.  Needham,  however,  was  at  length  coming 
definitely  to  notice  things.  Louise,  some  more  of  the 
lamb?  No?  Surely  more  of  the  creamed  carrots? 
But  you're  so  fond  of  them!  Ah,  yes.  There  were 
sharp  and  anxious  glances  in  the  direction  of  this 
baffling  elder  daughter.  She  wasn't  eating  right. 
And  when  any  of  the  Needhams  didn't  eat  right,  you 
could  be  very  sure  there  was  something  wrong  with 
the  heart. 

But  now,  anxious  paternal  orbs,  let  your  troubled 
gaze  shift  to  another  plate — the  next  plate  nearer 
your  own.  Oh,  man  of  God,  what  cheer?  Barry, 
another  slice?  Ah,  but  never  you  mind  that — no 
one  stops  at  a  second  helping  here!  No  more  pota- 
toes, either?  Tz,  tz!  Oh,  reverend  sir,  what  a  load 
to  fetch  back  to  your  expectant  flock  in  the  fall!  Oh, 


THE   LIGHT  235 

if  anything  should  happen  now — now,  just  as  life 
was  becoming  so  kind!  Oh,  now — and  those 
prickles  in  the  heels  occurring  with  less  and  less 
frequency,  even  despite  the  upsetting  presence  of 
Marjory!  To  have  something  go  wrong — at  his 
time  of  life.  ...  To  find  the  world  running  all  to 
sixes  and  sevens. . . . 

Oh,  it  must  be  a  wild  and  overwhelming 
fancy,  nothing  more  than  that!  Barry  (he  rambled 
wildly  in  his  mind)  for  mercy's  sake  more  carrots? 
And  aloud:  "Just  a  few  more,  Barry?"  Good! 
No,  no,  one  hasn't  heaped  them  up.  One  only  wants 
to  be  sure.  And  if  there  is  no  absolute  assurance 
in  this  hard  world,  one  so  beset  can  be  forgiven  for 
taking  refuge  behind  appearances — even  behind 
appearances  of  one's  own  manufacture,  in  an 
extremity  like  this!  Yes,  by  hook  or  by  crook  one 
must  contrive  to  keep  the  best  foot  foremost! 

Barry,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  doing  pretty  well 
and  feeling  pretty  wretched.  He  had  got  through 
the  afternoon  coolly  enough  on  a  kind  of  momentum 
generated  partly  by  the  decision  that  he  had  simply 
been  a  fool  to  dream  such  dreams,  and  partly  by  that 
hopeful,  wise,  desperate  little  word  of  counsel,  that 
fine  word,  patience.  But  here,  all  at  once,  was  a 
pang  of  reaction.  All  the  old,  warm,  wistful  love 
came  rushing  back.  The  ancient  dreams  of  home 
and  wife  and  children  returned  to  taunt  and  torture 
him.  Only  last  night,  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer, 
with  the  moon  so  soft  on  the  sea — ah,  only  last  night. 


236  THE  MOTH  DECIDES 
.  .  .  How  he  had  let  himself  go!  How  he  had 
even  pictured  things:  the  fireplace  here,  perhaps  the 
piano  there.  .  .  .  And  how  his  cigar  had  gone  out, 
and  he  hadn't  noticed.  But  now  he  was  sitting  be- 
side her  at  her  father's  table,  and  he  did  not  know 
whether  she  loved  him  or  not.  And  in  his  pocket 
was  a  box  with  a  ring  inside  it — a  ring  for  which 
there  might  never  be  any  use. 

Mrs.  Needham  noticed,  too.  But  Louise  had 
already  explained  that  she  had  a  headache.  The 
mother  did  not  suspect  that  there  was  anything  nec- 
essarily portentous  in  the  air,  and  her  heart  beat 
placidly  enough.  Her  life  seemed  settling  and  set- 
tling. The  current  grew  more  and  more  tranquil. 
She  had  times  of  feeling  so  kind  of  still. 

Later  the  talk  centred  in  Arizona. 

Barry  glanced  at  Louise,  and  found  her,  as  it  hap- 
pened, gazing  sadly,  quizzically,  and  with  some  ab- 
straction at  him.  He  looked  away  at  once,  trembling 
a  little;  and  he  carried  on  the  theme: 

"Of  course  Arizona  strikes  people  in  different 
ways.  Some  find  the  flatness  and  the  sand  depress- 
ing." 

"Is  it  sand  all  over?"  asked  Hilda. 

"Oh,  dear  no!"  replied  Miss  Whitcom,  with  a 
vehemence  which  served  to  remind  them  all  that  she 
had  been  a  pioneer  in  the  cactus  candy  business  and 
knew  what  she  was  talking  about. 

Even  the  Rev.  Needham  contributed  something  to 


THE   LIGHT  237 

his  younger  daughter's  enlightenment.  "There  are 
lots  of  trees  along  the  irrigation  ditches.  Barry, 
what  kind  of  trees  are  they?  I  never  can  seem  to 
remember." 

"Cottonwood,  mostly,"  he  answered.  "The  fo- 
liage is  a  very  delicate  green." 

"Oh,  it  must  be  lovely!"  sighed  Hilda,  who  roman- 
tically saw  herself  walking  along  beside  Leslie 
beneath  an  everlasting  row  of  the  most  beautiful  trees 
anybody  could  possibly  imagine.  "How  I  should 
love  to  go  out  there!" 

"Yes,"  mused  Miss  Whitcom,  "and  we  mustn't 
forget  the  broad  fields  of  alfalfa — so  dark — the  very 
greenest  green  in  all  the  world." 

Barry  nodded  slowly.  "Yes,  the  river  valleys  are 
always  quite  fertile.  Then  comes  the  great  Arizona 
desert,  with  cacti  and  mesquite  and  greenwood  and 
sage.  And  beyond  all  that" — he  had  begun  a  little 
monotonously,  but  came  at  length  to  speak  in  a  rather 
rapt  way — "beyond  all  that,  the  dim  blue  of  the  dis- 
tance, the  lonely  peaks  of  the  mountains . . . . " 

"Grand   old   mountains!"   added   Miss   Whitcom. 

And  it  was  odd,  and.no  doubt  sentimental,  but  the 
mountains  all  at  once  reminded  her  somehow  of 
O'Donnell.  Yes,  O'Donnell  was  something  like  a 
mountain.  Her  heart  quickened  a  little. 

"Oh,  I  know  I  should  just  love  it!"  cried  Hilda. 
And  then  she  asked,  in  her  almost  breathless  manner: 
"Are  there  any  birds  in  Arizona?" 
•     "Birds?"   repeated   Barry,   a   little   abstractedly, 


238          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

"Birds?  Oh,  yes — all  through  the  irrigated  districts. 
There  are  orchards,  you  know.  It's  a  fine  sight  to 
see  them  in  full  bloom.  And  the  trees  are  alive  with 
birds — meadow  larks  and  mocking  birds,  mostly. 
And  there  are  blackbirds,  too.  They  sing  in  a 
wonderful  chorus.  And  almost  everywhere  you'll 
hear  the  little  Mexican  doves." 

"Oh,  I  remember  the  doves!"  cried  Louise  sud- 
denly, forgetting  her  wretchedness. 

He  looked  at  her  wistfully  and  solemnly.  "Some 
people  say  the  doves  have  the  sweetest  song  of  all. 
There's  a  very  plaintive  note — you  remember?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  thickly,  avoiding  his  eyes. 

The  breath  of  Fate  seemed  faintly  to  animate  her 
having  remembered  the  little  Mexican  doves.  "I 
think,"  he  said,  "they  have  the  saddest  song  of  any  of 
the  birds." 


A  REMARK,  dreadful  yet  tantalizing  in  the 
vistas  it  opened  up,  was  overheard  by  the 
Rev.  Needham  as  he  was  coming  out  on  to 
the  screened  porch.  It  was  a  remark  which  set  on 
foot  an  increasingly  turbulent  desire  to  know,  un- 
equivocally and  without  expurgation,  just  what  had 
been  the  nature  of  his  sister-in-law's  life  on  the  dis- 
tracting island  of  Tahulamaji. 

Mrs.  Needham  had  retired  to  the  kitchen  for 
a  final  fling  with  Eliza  about  breakfast,  leaving  the 
minister  alone  in  the  living  room  with  his  daughter. 
Miss  Whitcom  and  Mr.  Barry  had  passed  out  on  to 
the  porch,  and  Louise  had  dropped  down  in  a  nice 
shadowy  corner  with  a  book — just  as  young  ladies 
naturally  and  invariably  do  after  dinner,  when  the 
light  is  beginning  to  fail,  and  their  lover  is  waiting  for 
them  outside. 

The  Rev.  Needham,  whose  suspicions  had  already 
been  rather  alarmingly  roused,  now  felt  sure  not  all 
was  well.  Why  should  Louise  behave  like  this  if  all 
were  well?  And  even  Barry — Barry  wasn't,  of 
course,  one  of  those  romantic  fellows  who  would 
always  be  sighing  and  rolling  their  eyes;  but  there 
were  subtler  manifestations.  .  .  .  They  had  gone 

239 


240         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

walking  together  in  the  afternoon — thank  God! 
There  was  that  much  to  cling  to.  Yes,  thank  heaven 
they  had  done  that  much  anyway! 

But  the  Rev.  Needham  was  so  full  of  perplexity 
that  he  hardly  knew  what  to  do  next.  He  told  him- 
self, in  desperation,  that  everything  must,  in  reality, 
be  all  right — rather  much  as  his  daughter  had  assured 
herself  on  the  train  that  all  must  work  out  for  the 
best:  her  best.  He  knew,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that 
this  was  not  quite  honest  persuasion.  But  it  helped. 
Oh,  it  was  a  very  present  help.  To  tell  the  truth,  it 
sufficed  to  carry  him  quickly  out  of  his  daughter's 
presence.  In  his  heart,  the  minister  knew  that  the 
issue  ought  to  be  faced  at  once.  Yes,  he  ought  to  call 
Louise  over  on  to  his  knee,  just  as  in  the  old  days, 
before  any  of  the  unhappy  love  troubles  began,  and 
ask  her  to  tell  him  what  had  gone  wrong.  But  he 
didn't  call  her  over.  Instead  he  began  humming  in  a 
perfectly  unconcerned  manner,  and  strolled  outside. 

It  was  just  as  he  reached  the  door  that  the  Rev. 
Needham  overheard  the  all  but  blood-curdling  re- 
mark. 

"You  must  realize,"  Miss  Whitcom  was  saying  to 
his  daughter's  fiance,  "that  it's  much  too  hot  there  to 
wear  any  clothes!" 

It  being  patently  too  late  to  turn  back,  the  clergy- 
man came  on;  somehow  reached  a  chair.  He  sat 
down  quickly  and  began  rocking.  He  rocked  help- 
lessly, yet  withal  in  a  faintly  ominous  way — perhaps, 


THE   LIGHT  241 

deeper  still,  with  a  movement  of  guilty  curiosity: 
for  after  all  he  was  but  human,  poor  man. 

The  sun  had  just  dipped,  and  the  sky  and  the 
sea  were  alive  with  the  fire  of  this  august  departure. 
A  wraith-like  distribution  of  cloud  still  received  direct 
beams  and  glowed  like  a  bit  of  magic  dream-stuff; 
but  the  lower  world  had  to  rest  content  now  with 
reflected  glory — a  sheen  of  softening  brightness  which 
would  grow  steadily  thicker  and  thicker,  like  quan- 
dary in  the  clergyman's  breast,  till  at  length  the  light 
was  all  gone  and  darkness  had  settled  across  the  sea 
and  the  sand.  Ah,  peaceful  eventide!  Good-bye, 
sweet  day!  But  the  heart  of  the  minister  was  all  full 
of  horrid  little  quick  jerks  and  a  settling  mugginess. 

The  conversation  his  appearance  had  served  to 
interrupt  did  not  continue  as  it  had  evidently  begun. 
Yet  even  at  its  worst  it  appeared  to  have  constituted 
merely  a  laughing  digression  from  the  major 
theme,  which  had  to  do  with  the  perfectly  proper  topic 
of  dry-farming.  No  one  would  think  of  calling  the 
topic  of  dry-farming  improper.  But  the  tenor  of  the 
talk  which  succeeded  the  minister's  arrival  in  their 
midst  did  not,  for  all  its  unimpeachable  correctness, 
serve  to  diminish  the  poignancy  of  that  awful  phrase: 
too  hot  to  wear  any  clothes! 

"Mr.  Barry,"  she  explained  to  her  brother-in-law, 
"has  been  telling  me  a  lot  of  interesting  things  about 
the  sorghums." 

Alfred  Needham  cleared  his  throat — just  as  he 


242         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

always  did,  for  instance,  before  ascending  the  pulpit 
on  Sunday — and  nodded.  But  he  was  not  thinking 
about  the  sorghums — just  as  sometimes,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  in  the  very  act  of  coming  out  of  the  vestry, 
and  with  the  eyes  of  the  congregation  upon  him, 
he  failed  to  keep  his  mind  entirely  on  the  sermon  he 
was  about  to  deliver. 

"It  seems  they've  made  enormous  strides  since  my 
day,"  she  went  on.  "Mr.  Barry,  how  many  varieties 
did  you  say  are  now  possible?" 

"Well,"  he  replied  solemnly,  his  eyes  large  with 
helpless  unhappiness,  "the  sorghums  now  include 
common  or  sweet  sorghum,  milo  maize,  Kaffir  corn — 
and  of  course  broom  corn.  These  have  become  stand- 
ard crops,  and  we're  introducing  them  more  and  more 
into  the  southern  district."  He  rocked  a  trifle  self- 
consciously. All  three  rocked  a  moment  in  silence. 

"There's  considerably  less  rainfall  down  there," 
commented  the  Rev.  Needham. 

The  statement  had  been  carefully  equipped  with 
earmarks  of  the  interrogative,  so  that,  should  it  hap- 
pen to  prove  incorrect,  refutation  would  take  the 
form  of  a  simple  answer  to  an  ingenuous  and  per- 
fectly natural  question.  The  Rev.  Needham  found  it 
urgent  to  keep  his  inflections  always  slightly  interrog- 
ative. There  was  even  a  sly,  sneaking  hint  of  the 
useful  question  mark  throughout  the  reverend  man's 
theology.  Ghastly  as  the  thing  must  sound  spoken 
right  out,  it  is  really  doubtful  whether  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham  would  be  caught  altogether  napping  were  the 


THE   LIGHT  243 

entire  Bible  suddenly  to  be  proved  spurious!  Of 
course  -when  Barry  admitted  that  there  was  less  rain- 
fall in  the  southern  part,  then  the  minister  rocked 
with  subtly  renewed  purpose,  slapping  the  arms  of 
his  chair  exactly  as  an  acknowledged  authority  on 
rainfall  might  be  expected  to  do.  But  of  course  it 
was  all  ever  so  much  subtler  than  this  makes  it  appear. 
It  was  infinitely  more  delicate  than  any  mere  I-told- 
you-so  attitude. 

"You  know,"  continued  Barry,  who  felt  an  unpleas- 
ant thickness  in  his  throat,  "the  sorghums  have  to  be 
able  to  withstand  a  great  deal  of  drought.  They  roll 
up  their  leaves  and  seem  to  sleep  for  months  at  a 
time;  and  when  the  rain  comes  again  they  revive 
quickly  and  make  rapid  strides." 

Inside  the  cottage  sat  Louise.  She  was  huddled 
miserably  over  a  book.  She  was  not  reading  the 
book,  though  it  chanced  to  be  a  very  absorbing  his- 
torical novel.  It  is  hard  to  conceive  of  a  young 
lady's  not  reading  such  a  work  with  avidity  and  even 
breathlessness,  under  the  circumstances.  But  to  be 
perfectly  accurate,  Louise  hadn't  even  opened  the 
historical  novel.  It  simply  lay  in  her  lap,  and  she 
was  huddled  over  it.  Her  eyes  were  dry.  She  was 
utterly  miserable.  And  just  outside,  in  the  full, 
fresh  sweetness  of  diminishing  dayshine,  sat  the  man 
who  had  come  all  this  way  to  put  a  ring  on  her  finger. 
He  was  sitting  out  there  in  the  romantic  richness  of 
the  tinted  evening,  and  he  was  talking  about  the 
gorghums! 


244          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

Oh,  a  wise  plant  is  the  sorghum.  When  there 
is  a  drought  it  rolls  up  its  leaves  and  waits  till  it  is 
time  for  the  refreshment  of  another  rain.  The  sor- 
ghum knows  well  how  to  plan  and  bide  its  time. 
The  sorghum  would  not  give  itself  too  easily.  .  .  . 

Out  on  the  rustic  bench  which  her  dear  father  had 
so  laboriously  constructed  sat  Hilda.  She  was  lis- 
tening for  steps  in  the  sand.  She  would  know  whose 
steps  they  were  when  they  drew  close.  It  was  grow- 
ing quite  dusky  underneath  the  trees.  The  stars 
would  soon  be  appearing.  There  had  been  a  slight 
breeze  all  the  afternoon,  but  it  had  died  away;  and 
on  the  beach  the  tiny  waves  were  whispering  that  it 
had  passed  that  way  and  was  now  still.  The  trees 
stood  very  quiet,  but  occasionally  a  squirrel  would 
whisk  by  overhead.  The  squirrels,  however,  were 
turning  in  for  the  night  now,  and  soon  there  would 
be  no  stir  left  save  only  the  night  stir  of  the  woods. 
Far  off  sounded  at  intervals  the  shouts  of  young  chil- 
dern — children  younger  than  Hilda,  and  unfettered 
as  yet  by  any  sweet  obligation  of  sitting  very  breath- 
less, listening  for  steps  in  the  sand. 

"How  lovely  everything  is!"  thought  Hilda. 

When  she  saw  Leslie  she  ran  out  to  meet  him — no 
mooning  pretense  at  not  having  heard. 

"Oh,  Les,  why  don't  you  light  it?" 

He  carried  a  Japanese  lantern  and  was  swinging 
it  about  in  a  very  reckless  way. 

"Shall  I?"  he  asked.     "Now?" 


THE   LIGHT  245 

"Oh,  yes!  It  isn't  quite  dark  yet,  but  it  will  be 
so  much  fun!" 

"The  candle's  pretty  short,  Hilda.  Do  you  think 
it  will  last?" 

"Let  me  see."  They  bent  their  heads  eagerly 
over  the  paper  lantern. 

"It  isn't  very  long,  is  it  Les?  I  guess  we'd  better 
put  in  a  new  one.  There  are  lots  of  them  at  the  cot- 
tage." 

And  before  he  could  protest  she  was  flying  off. 

On  the  screened  porch  she  found  the  entire  house- 
hold assembled.  Mrs.  Needham  had  completed  her 
session  with  Eliza  and  was  now  pleasantly  rocking. 
Ah,  there  was  a  rhythm  in  her  rocking — especially  of 
late  years.  It  was  the  sort  of  rhythm  the  vers  librists 
have  so  entirely  broken  away  from.  It  was  a  rock- 
ing which  rarely  went  slower  or  faster.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  Homeric  hexametre.  Or  it  was  stately  blank 
verse,  with  maybe  the  quaint  rhyming  couplets  of 
Crabbe  and  Cowper.  No  one  could  ever  think  of 
mistaking  it  for  Edgar  Lee  Masters! 

Louise  had  come  out  also.  Hilda,  as  she  flew  by 
and  on  into  the  cottage,  saw  her  sister  sitting  beside 
Lynndal  Barry  on  a  rocking  settee.  There  was,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  not  a  single  stationary  piece  of 
furniture  on  the  porch.  To  Anna  Needham,  rock- 
ing was  pleasant  and  even  actually  profitable.  To 
her  husband — well,  to  the  Rev.  Needham  it  seemed  a 
kind  of  muscular  necessity.  And  the  girls  had  al- 
ways been  used  to  it.  So  all  the  chairs  rocked. 


246         THE  MOTH  DECIDES 

Aunt  Marjie  sighed  briefly  as  Hilda  ran  by.  Boy- 
crazy.  Well,  life  wasn't  made  for  waiting  and 
and  working  alone.  Somehow,  this  sea  air — these 
lustrous,  still  nights — were  stealing  away  her  re- 
sistance. Yes,  O'Donnell  was  a  kind  of  mountain. 
And  yet,  curiously  enough,  he  was  only  a  travelling 
man,  too,  just  as  he  had  always  been.  Yes,  he  trav- 
elled for  Babbit  &  Babbit.  But  she  would  go  home 
to  him  at  last.  She  would  put  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der, if  he  would  let  her,  just  like  a  silly  young  thing. 
Suddenly  she  saw  her  life  as  a  restless  confusion  of 
ambitions  and  beginnings.  Oh,  to  have  spent  it  so! 
To  have  waited  as  long  as  this!  To  have  been  so 
afraid  of  giving  herself  too  easily.  .  .  . 

Hilda  came  running  out  again.  She  clutched  a 
new  candle  in  her  hand.  Her  eyes  were  quite  won- 
derful. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Mrs.  Needham,  ap- 
pearing a  little  bewildered  by  this  cyclonic  going  and 
coming. 

"He's  out  there;  we're  going  to  start  now!" 

There  was  just  sufficient  coherence  to  bring  Miss 
Whitcom  to  her  feet.  Always  impulsive,  she  step- 
ped to  the  screen  door  and  thence  down  on  to  the 
path. 

"Hilda!" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Marjie?" 

"You're  going  to  light  O'Donnell  through  to  the 
Point?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Marjie." 


THE   LIGHT  247 

Well,  be  sure  you  don't  lose  yourselves!"  No, 
even  Marjory,  with  her  amazing  retrospect  of  brass, 
did  not  quite  dare  to  say:  "Don't  lose  him!"  And 
yet,  so  far  as  her  heart  was  concerned,  it  really 
amounted  to  that. 

The  last  thing  Hilda  heard,  as  she  sped  off,  was 
the  patient  voice  of  Lynndal  Barry.  The  minister  had 
asked  him  another  question  about  the  sorghums. 

"Yes,"  Barry  was  saying,  "there  are  about  as 
many  varieties  of  Kaffir  corn  and  milo  maize  as  of 
the  saccharine  sorghums.  Only  a  few  have  been 
tested  in  the  South:  red  Kaffir  corn,  black  hulled 
white  Kaffir,  standard  milo  maize,  and  dwarf  milo 
maize.  But  we  intend — " 

Hilda,  skipping  with  happiness,  heard  no  more. 


6 

THE  procession  through  the  forest  of  Betsey 
was  a  very  romantic  affair.  First  came 
Hilda  and  Leslie,  the  latter  carrying  the 
lighted  Japanese  lantern  swung  over  his  shoulder. 
And  behind  them  walked  Mr.  O'Donnell,  like  Some 
great  monarch;  and  he  must  indeed,  just  then,  have 
felt  himself  at  least  the  king  of  all  travelling  men. 
What  would  his  colleagues  of  the  grip  think  if  they 
could  see  him  now?  Had  any  of  them,  for  all  their 
store  of  timetables  and  their  samples  and  routes  and 
customers,  ever  marched  through  so  royal  a  forest, 
on  such  a  night,  lighted  by  young  love  and  a  gay 
paper  lantern? 

Over  the  hills  and  through  the  valleys  of  BetJey! 
It  was  a  wonderful  lark.  Of  course  it  wouldn't  last. 
Real  larks  never  did.  He  would  go  back  to  his  grim 
bag  of  samples,  and  she  would  go  back  to  her  beloved 
Tahulamaji.  There  would  be  thousands  of  miles  be- 
tween them  once  more,  and  life  would  settle  back 
into  .the  uneventful  dog-trot  which  had  become  the 
established  gait.  But  tonight!  Tonight  he  was  pa- 
rading the  forest  of  Betsey  like  a  very  king,  and  his 
way  was  lighted  by  a  bright  paper  lantern  which 
danced  at  the  end  of  a  bough. 

248 


THE   LIGHT  249 

"Now,"  he  thought  slyly,  "if  I  were  a  poet.  .  .  ." 
However,  being  no  poet,  but  only  a  travelling  man  in 
the  employ  of  Babbit  &  Babbit,  our  friend  simply 
walked  along,  like  the  plain  mortal  he  was;  and  was 
content,  if  with  a  sigh,  things  should  be  as  they  were. 
"Ah,  this  is  fine!"  he  would  exclaim  in  his  quiet 
way.  And  Hilda,  for  all  her  heart  was  so  richly 
moved,  would  merely  reply:  "Yes,  we  like  it." 

It  had  been  agreed  upon  that  O'Donnell  should  be 
led  directly  to  the  scene  of  the  Assembly  Roast  in- 
stead of  being  brought  all  the  way  round  to  Beach- 
crest  first.  The  Needhams.,  Miss  Whitcom,  and 
Barry  were  to  walk  up  the  beach,  when  it  was  time. 

It  was  at  length  about  as  dark  as  it  ever  gets  in 
moonlight  season.  The  moon  had  not  yet  risen,  but 
would  be  coming  up  soon.  The  Rev.  Needham  sug- 
gested that  it  was  time  to  start. 

Miss  Whitcom  was  on  her  feet  at  once.  There  fol- 
lowed quite  a  little  flurry  about  wraps.  The  Rev. 
Needham  and  Barry  strolled  on  ahead  down  to  the 
beach.  They  walked  slowly,  and  the  ladies  were  to 
overtake  them.  Both  men  were  smoking  cigars,  the 
ministerial  supply  seeming  happily  inexhaustible. 
If  one's  faith  might  be  as  inexhaustible! 

Being  a  little  ill  at  ease,  they  talked  of  obvious 
things:  the  broadness  of  the  beach  just  here,  the  firm- 
ness of  the  sand,  its  pleasant  crunch  under  the  feet. 

"We  tried  to  have  a  board  walk  down  from  the  cot- 
tage," observed  the  Rev.  Needham,  "but  every  winter 


250          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

the  sand  drifted  all  over  it  and  buried  it,  so  we  had 
to  give  up  the  idea."  He  was  wondering  nervously 
whether  Barry  would  seize  this  occasion  to  ask  for 
his  daughter's  hand. 

"You  really  don't  need  a  walk,"  replied  his  guest. 
"It's  an  agreeable  change  from  the  city  this  way." 

"Yes — yes,  it's  a  change." 

There  was  a  short,  awkward  pause.  Then  Barry 
remarked.  "You've  got  an  ideal  location  here." 

And  the  minister  answered:     "Yes,  we  like  it." 

They  trudged  on  a  little  way  in  silence. 

"There  certainly  are  a  lot  of  stars  out  tonight," 
commented  Barry,  transferring  his  gaze  rather 
abruptly  from  the  sands  to  the  heavens. 

"Um — yes.  Yes,  there  are  a  great  many.  And 
there  will  be  a  full  moon,  later  on." 

"Yes,  I  know.  The  moon  was  wonderful  last 
night  on  the  lake.  I  sat  out  on  deck  a  long  time," 

"You  said  you  had  a  good  trip  across,  didn't 
you?" 

"Oh,  yes — perfectly  smooth." 

Another  silence — an  ominous  desperate  silence. 

"Well,"  quoth  the  Rev.  Needham,  turning  around 
and  peering  back,  "I  wonder  if  they're  not  com- 
ing?" 

"I  think  I  see  them  coming  now  across  the  sand," 
remarked  Barry. 

"Yes — yes,  I  believe  I  do,  too,"  the  other  agreed. 

"That's  Louise  in  the  white  dress." 

"Yes,  that's  Louise." 


THE   LIGHT  251 

It  wasn't  long  before  the  ladies  overtook  them. 
The  tension  was  at  once  both  relieved  and  height- 
ened. Anna  Needhara  claimed  her  husband's  arm, 
Louise  walked  beside  Barry,  and  Miss  Whitcom 
walked  alone  with  her  thoughts.  However,  the 
groups  were  not  isolated.  Yes,  there  was  safety  in 
numbers.  Single  encounters  began  to  be  desperately 
unpleasant. 

What  was  the  matter?  In  Anna's  day,  young 
folks  had  been  given,  she  remembered,  to  wandering 
significantly  off  by  themselves  on  such  rare  nights  as 
this.  But  Louise  and  Lynndal  kept  close.  Anna 
was  troubled  about  this — even  whispered  about  it  to 
her  husband  as  they  walked  along.  Alfred  started 
and  began  to  talk  about  something  else.  They  ought 
to  face  this  thing.  They  ought  to  face  it  squarely  and 
with  courage.  But  Alfred  couldn't.  He  told  him- 
self they  must  be  only  imagining  things. 

They  passed  the  lighthouse,  so  shadowy  and  gaunt 
itself,  yet  with  so  beaming  an  eye!  Adjoining  the 
tower  was  the  keeper's  residence.  There  were  lights 
in  some  of  the  rooms.  A  child  was  calling.  A  dog 
was  sniffing  about.  He  was  quite  used  to  resorters, 
and  did  not  even  bark  as  the  party  approached  and 
passed  the  premises.  Louise  stooped  to  pat  the  dog's 
head.  Barry  said:  "Hello,  sir!"  The  dog  wag- 
ged his  tail  slowly,  but  did  not  follow  them  away 
from  the  house.  He  had  learned  all  life's  lessons  in 
puppyhood.  He  would  never  stray.  What  a  grand 
thing,  never  to  stray! 


252         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

When  they  were  rounding  the  final  curve  of  the 
Point  separating  them  from  the  rendezvous,  Mrs. 
Needham  cried:  "Oh,  look — they're  lighting  it  al- 
ready!" 

The  cone-shaped  pile  was  visible,  and  fire  was  leap- 
ing all  about  the  base.  Flame  shot  up  quickly  to  the 
very  peak,  and  thence  on  up,  higher  and  higher,  to- 
ward the  stars. 

There  was  quite  a  crowd  assembled  about  the  fire 
when  the  people  from  Beachcrest  arrived.  O'Don- 
nell  and  his  delightful  escort  arrived  from  another 
direction  at  almost  the  same  moment.  Then  they  all 
sat  around  in  the  sand,  and  kept  jumping  up  to  in- 
troduce and  be  introduced.  Naturally  the  Need- 
hams  knew  everybody  on  the  Point;  and  it  was  al- 
ways quite  a  thing  to  have  guests.  Here  were  the 
Goodmans,  smiling  hosts  to  the  entire  assembly. 
Had  they  not  started  the  thing  long  ago  when  their 
married  life  was  in  its  springtime?  Ah,  the  Good- 
mans! Miss  Whitcom  remarked  afterward  that  she 
felt  as  though  she  were  shaking  hands  with  royalty. 
"It  honestly  reminded  me,"  she  said,  "of  my  first 
meeting  with  Queen  Tess!" 

In  the  excitement,  of  course  the  roasting  sticks 
had  been  forgotten,  and  of  course  Hilda  insisted  upon 
running  all  the  way  back  with  Leslie  to  Beachcrest 
after  them.  By  the  time  the  sticks  were  there,  the 
fire  had  flared  itself  into  a  condition  inviting  the  ap- 
proach of  wienies  and  marshmallows.  A  ring  of  re- 
sorters  hovered  round  the  fire  with  sticks  held  hope- 


THE   LIGHT  253 

fully  out  and  faces  shielded  by  an  arm.  Naturally 
there  were  some  mishaps.  Some  one,  by  deftly  turn- 
ing and  turning,  would  coax  a  marshmallow  to  the 
point  of  the  most  golden  perfection,  only  to  have  it 
plump  dismally  down  in  the  sand  at  last.  Then 
there  would  be  a  chorus  of  sympathy  and  disappoint- 
ment from  a  group  of  sitters,  each  of  whom  had  per- 
haps more  or  less  hoped  to  be  favoured  with  the  deli- 
cious smoking  confection.  Or  else  it  would  be  a 
frankfurter  that  plumped.  But  there  never  was  a 
roast  without  tragedies. 

And  everywhere  romped  the  children.  Some- 
times they  would  throw  themselves  on  to  their  stom- 
achs and  begin  ambitiously  digging  in  the  sand  to- 
ward water.  Then  they  would  leap  and  chase  each 
other,  or  they  would  go  about  thrusting  fallen  fag- 
gots back  into  the  fiery  heart  of  the  blaze. 

The  provision  baskets  stood  hospitably  open.  In 
one  might  be  discovered  a  wealth  of  cool,  slippery 
frankfurters;  in  another  heaps  of  split  and  buttered 
buns;  in  still  another  dill  pickles,  a  pot  of  mustard. 
And  of  course  there  were  always  marshmallows. 
Some  preferred  marshmallows  to  frankfurters  and 
some  preferred  frankfurters  to  marshmallows.  But 
the  majority  ate  ravenously  of  both  alike,  display- 
ing little  or  no  preference. 

The  eastern  sky  grew  lighter  and  lighter.  The 
trees  stood  out  mysterious  and  very  black  against  it. 

"Look,  look!"  cried  the  children. 

For  the  moon  was  rising  now. 


254         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

The  young  boys  grew  restive.  Their  stomachs 
were  simply  closed  to  the  incursion  of  any  more  re- 
freshment; it  was  a  pity,  no  doubt,  but  full  was  full. 
The  boys  began  enlarging  their  area  of  prowess. 
There  was  a  great  sand  bluff  inland  a  short  way, 
where  a  rift  in  the  hills  cut  a  deep,  barren  gash 
across  the  face  of  the  forest.  The  boys  crept  far  up 
the  bluff  and  then  leapt  out,  down  and  down. 

The  east  was  luminous,  and  the  great  moon  crept 
higher  and  higher.  When  the  boys  leapt,  their 
bodies  were  silhouetted  against  her  bright  disc. 
They  would  appear  out  of  the  shadow  of  nothing, 
poise  a  moment,  leap  into  space,  disappear. 

"Well,"  observed  Barry,  in  some  surprise,  "I  see 
you've  brought  a  book  along." 

She  had  really  forgotten  the  book  was  in  her  lap, 
as  she  sat  huddled  over  it  so  miserably  in  the  cottage 
living  room  after  dinner.  When  she  had  gone  out  on 
to  the  porch  afterward  she  had  carried  it  with  her 
automatically,  and  so  had  brought  it  all  the  way  to 
the  roast  without  thinking.  Louise  had  a  grimly 
whimsical  feeling  that  she  couldn't  get  away  from 
the  book.  "If  I'd  only  thrown  it  into  the  harbour 
this  morning!"  she  thought.  But  to  him  she  merely 
replied,  a  manufactured  gaiety  edging  the  words 
without  lightening  them:  "Oh,  yes — it's  a  book  I 
picked  up  by  chance."  She  handled  it  carelessly, 
and  her  quick  glance  shot  to  a  distant  group.  Les- 
lie was  lying  stretched  out  in  the  sand,  his  chin  in  his 
hands.  He  was  looking  up  at  Hilda,  who  appeared 


THE   LIGHT  255 

to  be  recounting  something  of  great  interest.  Louise 
felt  her  face  go  hot  with  jealousy.  "I — I  don't  know 
much  about  it,"  she  went  on,  flapping  the  cover  of  the 
book  listlessly  back  and  forth.  "It  was  recom- 
mended to  me  by  some  one  who  had  read  it." 

"What  is  the  name?"  Barry  asked  politely. 

She  held  the  book  up  in  the  firelight,  flaunting  it 
in  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  come  so  far  with  his 
love  and  his  brave  little  ring.  It  was  the  darkest 
hour  of  her  pilotless  groping. 

Leslie's  laugh  rang.  The  little  group  took  it  up. 
Then  Leslie  himself  appeared  to  become  the  centre  of 
interest.  He  began  telling  a  story  which  involved 
a  great  many  gestures.  At  one  stage  he  even  jumped 
up  and  turned  a  cartwheel,  and  one  of  the  girls  in  the 
crowd  exclaimed:  "Can't  you  just  see  it?" 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do?"  thought  Louise,  fighting 
her  tears. 

The  moon  climbed  slowly  up  the  sky,  and  the 
young  boys,  one  after  another,  with  loud  shrieks 
of  joy,  silhouetted  themselves  darkly  against  her 
gleaming  face. 

And  then  the  speech  making  began. 

The  Rev.  Goodman  led  off.  He  had  something  in 
the  nature  of  a  set  speech  for  the  occasion,  which 
varied  surprisingly  little  from  year  to  year.  It  bade 
the  guests  welcome,  always  in  the  same  felicitous 
terms,  and  contained  the  same  allusions  to  the  salub- 
riousness  of  the  climate,  the  unmatchable  beauty  of 
their  Point.  Alluding  to  God's  Great  Out-of -Doors, 


256          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

the  Rev.  Goodman  would  invariably  employ  the  same 
grand  gesture. 

"And  now,"  he  concluded,  "I  am  sure,  dear 
friends,  we  feel  a  gratitude  in  our  hearts  to  the 
Father  of  All  Goodness,  who  has  guided  our  foot- 
steps," et  cetera,  et  cetera.  "And  may  we  all  bow 
our  heads  with  the  Rev.  Needham,  and  join  him  in 
prayer." 

The  Rev.  Goodman  sat  down  and  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham  scrambled  to  his  feet.  He  closed  his  eyes  very 
tight  and  prayed  quite  loud — as  though  defying 
Marjory  to  prevail  against  him  here.  It  was  the 
next  thing  to  being  right  in  the  pulpit!  But  he  felt 
her  gazing  at  him  in  that  shrewd  way  of  hers  which 
seemed  saying:  "Alfred,  have  you  really  got  truth  in 
your  heart?"  What  did  Marjory  mean  by  looking  at 
him  that  way?  What  right  had  she  to  question  his 
faith  and  to  speak  of  truth? 

It  was  really  a  very  good  prayer,  though  perhaps 
just  a  little  more  earnest  than  the  occasion  actually 
required.  When  the  prayer  was  finished,  he  sat 
down.  (Naturally  there  was  no  applause.)  All  the 
other  speakers  would  be  applauded,  but  no  applause 
lightened  the  sitting  down  of  the  Rev.  Needham. 
However,  there  was  a  general  stir  in  the  camp,  just 
as  there  is  in  church  when  backs,  wearied  with  the 
Sabbath  bending,  straighten  cheerfully  for  another 
seven  days  of  sin. 

And  then  the  Rev.  Goodman,  who  was  the  official 


THE   LIGHT  257 

toastmaster,  jumped  up  and  told  a  humorous  story, 
which  every  one  had  heard  before;  after  which  he 
turned  to  the  Rev.  Blake  and  asked  him  to  recite  The 
House  By  the  Side  of  the  Road,  a  very  great  favourite 
at  the  Point.  Then  the  congregation  sang  that  cheer- 
ing and  beautiful  hymn,  Rock  of  Ages,  under  cover 
of  which  most  of  the  boys  escaped  and  ran  violent 
races  up  and  down  the  beach.  Then  the  host  told 
another  moderately  humorous  story,  in  which  he  very 
cleverly  incorporated  something  about  the  brother 
clergyman  upon  whom  he  meant  to  call  for  the  next 
selection.  This  clergyman  (who  hailed  from  Du- 
buque,  Iowa),  not  to  be  outdone,  scored  heavily  by 
telling  a  humorous  story  he  had  learnt  off  from  The 
Ladies*  Home  Journal,  but  which  in  the  telling  he  so 
miraculously  manipulated  that  the  Rev.  Goodman 
became  its  hero!  There  always  was  a  vast  amount 
of  pleasant  playfulness  at  these  Assembly  Roasts. 
Later  on  the  congregation,  sitting,  sang  that  sublimely 
joyous  hymn  called  Jesus,  Lover  of  My  Soul.  Since 
there  was  no  judicious  organist  at  hand  to  speed 
things  up,  the  singing  was  inclined  to  sag,  and  one 
half  of  the  camp  finished  a  little  bit  behind  the  other. 
But  this  was  a  very  small  matter  indeed,  because,  as 
every  one  knows,  it  is  the  spirit  that  counts  most, 
especially  at  such  times.  Innumerable  other  speak- 
ers, many  of  them  purely  secular,  were  called  upon. 
And  Mrs.  Goodman,  who  was  quite  an  elocutionist, 
read  a  little  story  which  only  the  innermost  circle 


258          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

could  hear.  And  Miss  Whitcom  nudged  her  friend. 
They  slipped  away  and  strolled  along  the  beach  to- 
gether. 

"I  thought  I'd  rescue  you,  Barrett,"  she  said. 

"But  I  was  immensly  enjoying  myself,"  he  smil- 
ingly protested. 

"Yes,  I  shouldn't  wonder — especially  the  singing! 
You  know,  I  was  so  desperately  afraid  they  might 
call  upon  me — just  as  a  curiosity,  you  know — and 
how  I  should  have  shocked  them!" 

"You  think  so?" 

"Why,  of  course.  I  never  open  my  mouth  without 
shocking  somebody  or  other.  I  don't  really  set  out 
to  do  it.  I  simply  don't  seem  able  to  help  my- 
self." 

"You  don't  shock  me." 

"Perhaps  not — any  more." 

"But  you  know  you  never  really  did." 

"Never?" 

"No.     At  worst  you  only  opened  my  eyes." 

"Well,  Barrett,"  she  said,  after  a  short  silence,  I 
think  I've  always  rather  felt  that:  that  you  under- 
stood, deep  down — that  you  weren't  quite  shockable, 
in  fact." 

"Yes,"  he  said  meditatively.  They  strolled  along, 
saying  nothing  more  for  a  little  time. 

At  length  she  asked:  "Do  you  remember  the  time 
we  swam  for  the  Allenhurst  medal?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  he  nodded. 


THE   LIGHT  259 

"You  remember  how  even  we  were — how  we  out- 
distanced all  the  others?" 

He  smiled  queerly.     "They  hadn't  a  chance!" 

"Right-0,  Barrett.  We  knew  how  to  stroke  in 
those  days!  Well,"  she  continued  after  a  moment, 
"and  you  haven't  forgotten  how  I  won  the  race — and 
why?" 

"A  sudden  cramp — I  thought  I  was  done  for!" 

"Oh,  no,  my  friend."  They  were  both  smiling. 
"Time  has  played  tricks  with  your  memory.  It 
wasn't  a  cramp.  Now  think,  think  hard.  You  went 
lazy  at  the  finish.  And  so  how  could  I  help  pulling 
in  ahead  in  spite  of  myself?" 

"Marjory,  I—" 

"Be  not  forsworn,  my  friend.  Let's  agree  that 
you  went  lazy  at  the  finish.  After  all  these  years, 
can't  we?  It  was  a  singular  thing,"  she  went  on,  half 
gravely  and  half  smilingly.  "You  know  I  was 
just  at  the  age.  .  .  .  Well,  it  had  a  most  singular 
effect  upon  me.  Yes,  I  may  say  it  altered  the 
whole  course  of  my  life,  Barrett."  She  laughed 
softly. 

"Great  heavens,  Marjory,  you  don't  honestly 
mean  .  .  .  !" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  'new' 
women,  and  I  just  simply  rebelled.  That  was  all. 
You  haven't  forgotten  how  I  sent  the  medal  back 
to  you?" 

He  looked  quite  serious.  "I  know,"  he  said 
softly.  "I  was  stupid  about  it  for  a  long  time. 


260          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

There  didn't  seem  to  be  any  sense  in  your  sending  it 
back.  In  fact.  .  .  ."  He  hesitated. 

"Do  let's  be  perfectly  frank!"  she  invited,  with 
another  short  laugh. 

"Well,  I  thought  it  a  wilful  and  childish  attitude 
to  take.  I  didn't  want  them  to  say  I'd  beaten  a 
woman.  We  were  still  living  on  the  fringe  of  chiv- 
alry, you  know,  when  it  was  more  important  to  walk 
on  the  proper  side  of  a  woman  and  tip  your  hat  to 
her  at  a  certain  angle  than  to  give  her  the  vote.  I 
was  brought  up  in  a  delightful  Victorian  atmosphere, 
where  it  wasn't  considered  the  thing  even  to  beat  a 
woman  at  tennis,  if  you  could  decently  help  it." 

"Ah,  yes!"  cried  Marjory.  "Just  think  of  it! 
But  gradually  you  grew  wiser,  Barrett — you  and  the 
world." 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  "I  and  the  world." 

"You  came  to  see  .  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  came  at  last  to  see  that  you  can't  go  lazy 
at  the  finish  any  more.  I  told  you,  and  I  meant 
it,  that  at  last  I've  capitulated — capitulated  at  every 
point." 

They  walked  on  a  little  way  in  the  moonlight,  close 
to  the  waves.  All  at  once  a  bold  thrill  of  tenderness 
came  on  him.  He  drew  the  woman  into  his  arms. 
She  responded  slowly.  Afterward  she  professed  to 
be  not  quite  sure  whether  they  had  kissed. 

But  there  was  a  witness.  Oh,  yes — there  was  a 
witness  who  could  emphatically  and  joyfully  testify 
that  they  did  kiss,  and  that  they  kissed  more  than 


THE   LIGHT  261 

once.  The  witness,  of  course,  was  our  ubiquitous 
little  pagan  god,  who  had  abandoned  at  least  a  half 
dozen  most  promising  cases  at  the  roast  to  chase  for 
a  moment  down  the  beach  after  this  pair  of  obdurate 
mortals  who  had  held  off  for  twenty  years. 


AT  about  ten  o'clock  the  Rev.  Needham  took 
out  his  watch  and  thought  it  was  time  he 
and  his  little  party  set  their  faces  home- 
ward. Mrs.  Needham  had  been  talking  gentle  gossip 
with  Mrs.  Blake  and  the  wife  of  the  minister  from 
Dubuque ;  but  she  got  up  at  once  and  obediently  took 
her  husband's  arm. 

"We  go  to  bed  early  at  Beachcrest,"  she  explained. 
They  went  to  bed  early  in  town,  for  that  matter, 
though  the  full  truth  went  uncommunicated. 

"Where  are  the  girls?"  demanded  the  Rev.  Need- 
ham,  looking  anxiously  round. 

Louise  came  up  hurriedly,  followed  by  Barry. 
"Are  you  starting  home  now,  papa?"  she  asked,  with 
what  sounded  strangely  like  eagerness. 

"Well,  we  thought  we'd  just  be  starting  along.  It's 
— it's  not  late  yet,  you  know.  We'll  just  slip  on  ahead 
and  get  the  cottage  lighted." 

"I  think  we'll  go  along  now  too." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  hurry.     The  fire's  quite  good  yet." 

"Lynndal  is  tired,"  she  insisted.  "He  didn't  sleep 
more  than  a  couple  of  hours  on  the  boat."  And  she 
gave  him  a  very  complex  glance  in  which  there  was 
something  whisperingly  like  an  element  of  tenderness. 

262 


THE   LIGHT  263 

"Well,"  capitulated  Mrs.  Needham. 

But  Louise  was  only  one  daughter.  Where  was 
Hilda? 

Where  indeed?     Where  was  she? 

Anxious  eyes  explored  the  assembled  company. 
Most  of  the  young  people  had  mysteriously  made  off, 
some  this  way  and  some  that,  but  all  alike  into  the 
friendly  embrace  of  the  darkness  which  lay  so  thick 
beyond  the  glow  of  the  fire.  Where  was  Hilda? 

"I  think  I  saw  her  with  the  lad — is  it  Leslie?"  said 
Lynndal  Barry. 

"Oh — Leslie,"  repeated  Mrs.  Needham. 

"You  didn't  notice  which  way  they  went?"  asked 
the  minister. 

"No,  I'm  afraid  I  didn't." 

Then  Louise  came  to  the  rescue.  She  pointed  mis- 
erably, yet  also  with  a  faint,  new  fact-facing 
grimness,  toward  the  lake. 

"They  haven't  taken  out  the  canoe  .  .  .  !" 
Alfred  Needham  was  horror  struck. 

"It's  perfectly  calm,  papa,"  Louise  reminded  him 
dryly. 

Then,  indeed,  they  saw  the  canoe,  on  the  moon- 
lit water.  Both  Leslie  and  Hilda  were  paddling. 
But  they  were  not  exactly  paddling  toward  the  shore. 

"She  knows  it's  not  allowed,  out  like  this  at  all 
hours  of  the  night!"  cried  the  minister. 

But  his  wife  reassured  him  in  her  gentle  way. 
"Alf,  I  wouldn't  \>orry.  Leslie  will  look  out  for 
her." 


264          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

Louise  lowered  her  head.  Then  she  moved  almost 
impreceptibly  closer  to  Lynndal.  At  length  the  home- 
ward march  was  begun.  But  the  Rev.  Needham 
stopped  again  suddenly,  looking  at  his  wife  in  a  help- 
less way. 

"Anna,  where  s  your  sister?" 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Anna  Needham.  "We  were 
starting  right  off  without  her!" 

"Is  that  Miss  Whitcom?"  asked  Barry. 

"Who?" 

"Where?" 

"The  lady  just  ahead,  coming  this  way." 

It  was  true.  There  was  a  lady  approaching  along 
the  beach.  But  she  was  with  a  man,  and  the  man .... 

"Alf!"  whispered  Anna,  gripping  her  husband's 
arm. 

"Well?" 

"Oh— look!" 

"What  is  it,  Anna?" 

She  murmured  in  almost  an  ecstasy:  "Why,  he's 
got  his  arm  right  round  her  waist!" 

The  awful  intelligence  that  this  was  indeed  Mar- 
jory, and  that  a  man  had  his  arm  around  her  waist, 
smote  the  minister's  consciousness  with  peculiar  and 
climatic  force. 

Hilda  and  Leslie  took  their  own  good  time  about 
coming  in  off  the  lake.  It  was  so  wonderful  out  there 
in  the  moonlight. 

"I've  had  a  perfectly  grand  time!"  she  told  him, 


THE   LIGHT  265 

her  voice  thrilling  richly  with  conviction.  She  knew 
she  had  had  a  grand  time,  and  whatever  might  be  the 
sequel  when  she  faced  her  parents,  the  grandness 
would  never,  never  diminish. 

They  ascended  the  slight  sand  elevation  and 
reached  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  porch.  Moon- 
light patched  and  patterned  the  steps.  They  did  not 
go  any  farther. 

Hilda  sat  down,  drawing  her  knees  and  chin  to- 
gether, while  Leslie  whistled  softly. 

"Will  your  father  be  mad?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no!"  the  girl  exclaimed,  with  the  full  and 
emphatic  authority  of  one  who  is  gravely  in  doubt. 
"Why?"  she  added.  "It  isn't  late,  is  it?" 

Leslie  pulled  out  his  watch.  "N-o-o.  Only  twenty 
after  eleven." 

"Twenty  after  eleven?  Twenty  after  eleven! 
Oh,  my  goodness!  I  didn't  have  any  idea  it  was  so 
late.  It  seemed  as  though  we  were  only  out  there  a 
couple  of  minutes!" 

"It  did  to  me,  too,"  admitted  Leslie. 

The  lateness  of  the  hour,  however,  appeared  to 
exert  no  immediate  influence  upon  either  his  recog- 
nition of  the  wisdom  of  departure  or  hers  of  with- 
drawal to  bed.  Leslie  swung  back  and  forth,  clinging 
to  a  slender  birch  tree  which  grew  quite  close  to  the 
cottage.  Its  silver  leaves  crashed  gently  together,  as 
though  a  breeze  were  thrusting  its  way  through. 

"I  could  simply  sit  out  here  all  night!"  Hilda 
declared. 


266         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

Leslie  admitted  he  could  too.  Presently  he  did 
sit  down.  He  sat  down  beside  Hilda,  but,  as  before, 
one  step  below  her.  It  was  certainly  a  lovely  night. 
His  head  somehow  found  her  knee;  then  Eros  could 
hardly  contain  himself!  Hilda  ran  her  fingers 
very  lightly  through  his  hair.  They  did  not  bother  to 
talk  much. 

At  length  he  asked:  "Shall  we  go  out  after  rasp- 
berries tomorrow?  Would  you  like  to?" 

"Oh,  Les— that  would  be  lots  of  fun!" 

"All  right." 

"Shall  we  take  a  lunch  so  we  won't  have  to  hurry?" 

"Good  idea." 

"What  time  will  you  come,  Les?" 

"What  time  do  you  want  me?" 

"Oh— I  don't  know." 

"Right  after  breakfast?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  Her  answer  to  this  question  held 
no  slightest  inflection  of  doubt. 

"What  time  do  you  have  breakfast?" 

"Never  later  than  eight  o'clock,  and  it  only  takes 
me  a  minute  to  eat!" 

Leslie  appeared  to  have  forgotten  all  about  going 
back  to  the  city,  after  all. ... 

There  was  another  warm  silence.  The  boy  had  no 
idea  of  starting  for  his  own  cottage,  nor  had  Hilda  any 
idea  of  going  to  bed.  It  didn't,  for  some  strange 
reason,  occur  to  either  that  the  parent  Needhams 
might  be  waiting  up  in  there,  and  that  the  minister, 
harassed  over  dim  prospects  of  ruin  perceived  in  the 


THE   LIGHT  267 

relationship  of  his  daughter  and  the  man  who  handled 
the  Western  interests,  was  attaining  an  attitude  of 
really  appalling  austerity.  No,  they  didn't  bother 
their  spoony  young  heads  about  any  of  these  things, 
until  all  at  once  the  cottage  door  opened,  letting  out 
upon  them  a  flood  of  light  from  the  living  room. 

"Hello,  papa!"  cried  Hilda,  guiltily  and  very 
affectionately.  She  jumped  up. 

The  Rev.  Needham  did  not  say  much  out  on  the 
porch;  but  when  Leslie  had  crept  off,  after  hurriedly 
squeezing  the  girl's  hand,  and  Hilda  had  been  mar- 
shalled within,  the  law  was  laid  down  with  unusual 
vigour.  Mrs.  Needham  took  it  all  rather  more 
quietly,  primarily  because  she  did  not  share,  in  its 
full  poignancy,  her  husband's  alarm  over  Louise.  Of 
course  she  was  concerned.  But  the  poise  of  climax 
was  beginning  to  assert  itself.  No  doubt  tomorrow, 
if  a  reign  of  chaos  really  did  set  in,  Mrs.  Needham 
would  rule  over  the  turmoil  like  a  very  judge.  She 
would  become  dominant,  as  when  she  went  to  rescue 
her  daughter  from  the  Potomac.  It  was  perhaps  her 
only  complex. 

Hilda  had  just  been  sent  up  to  bed,  rather  subdued, 
but  in  her  heart  immensely  radiant,  when  Marjory 
arrived  home.  O'Donnell  wanted  to  hang  around 
awhile,  but  she  wouldn't  let  him.  No,  she  positively 
refused  to  linger  any  longer  in  the  moonlight.  She 
reproved  herself  a  little.  She  reproved  him  a  little, 
too.  They  had  already  been  quite  romantic  enough 


268          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

for  one  night.  And  she  hustled  him  off  with  a  lack 
of  ceremony  which  went  with  her  years  and  her  tem- 
perament. All  the  same,  he  managed  to  steal  a  glan- 
cing kiss.  And  Eros — who  I  forgot  to  say  had  re- 
mained in  hiding  out  there — Eros  told  himself  that 
this  was  infinitely  better  for  his  purposes  than  a  mere 
handshake! 

When  he  had  gone,  she  sat  down  on  the  steps  alone, 
for  a  moment.  It  was  so  wonderful — life  was — and 
the  night.  She  watched  the  moon  declining  over  a  just- 
troubled  sea.  Then  abruptly  she  became  conscious  of 
voices  in  the  cottage  living  room. 

"Now,  your  sister!" 

"Well,  Alf  ?" 

"She's  still  out!" 

"Oh,  Marjory  knows  the  way." 

"But  at  such  an  hour!" 

"It's  only  a  quarter  to  twelve,  Alf." 

"I  know  how  the  Point  will  be  talking  tomorrow!" 

"Alf,  I—" 

"Oh — I've  nothing  to  say.  No,  Anna,  I  realize 
she's  your  sister.  But  I  must  tell  you  what  I  think." 
And  he  was  back  once  more  on  the  topic  that  so  tur- 
bulently  absorbed  him.  "I  think  Marjory  has  been 
led  into  an  unfortunate  way  of  living.  She's  always 
run  so  free  and  never  cared  what  people  thought  or 
said.  I  really  don't  know  how  the  Point  is  going  to 
take  her."  And  after  a  moment's  pause,  during 
which  the  minister  could  be  heard  pacing  up  and 
down:  "Anna,  what  do  we  know  about  the  nature  of 


THE   LIGHT  269 

her  life  in  Tahulamaji?  Has  she  told  you  anything 

definitely  about  that?  No.  But  she's  hinted " 

He  paced  on,  and  presently  added:  "Now  here  she  is, 
just  back;  and  the  very  first  thing  she  does  is  walk  all 
over  with  a  man's  arm  round  her!" 

Miss  Whitcom  abandoned  the  wonderful  night. 
When  she  entered,  her  sister  smiled  and  brightened 
generally.  But  her  brother-in-law  seemed  rather 
taken  off  his  feet. 

Marjory  wanted  to  make  the  minister  feel  perfectly 
at  home,  so  she  sat  down  and  began  rocking  cosily. 

"How  snug  you're  fixed  here!"  she  murmured. 
"How  happy  you  ought  to  be,  Alfred,  in  your  little 
nest!  Ah,  it's  fine  to  be  in  the  bosom  of  a  family 
again.  You  know,  I  feel  somehow  as  though  I'd 
come  back  from  an  absence  of  nearly  a  lifetime. 
It's  a  curious  feeling,  to  come  back  like  this.  Like  a 
sort  of  prodigal,  Alfred — just  fancy!  But  I  did  have 
to  go  away,"  she  pleaded  earnestly.  "In  the  begin- 
ning, it  was  quite  necessary!  You  see  there  were 
such  a  lot  of  things  I  wanted  to  find  out,  and  I  felt 
from  the  very  first — Anna,  you  remember  how  I  used 
to  talk  to  you  about  life,  and  all  that? — well,  I  some- 
how felt  I  shouldn't  find  out  anything  just  sitting 
in  the  front  parlour  with  a  family  album  spread  open 
on  my  lap.  You  see,  it  wasn't  what  the  others  were 
like  that  I  wanted  to  be  like,  and  it  wasn't  what  all 
the  others  had  done  that  I  wanted  to  do  in  the  world. 
So  I  broke  away.  Yes,  the  prodigal  left,  to  roam  far 
and  wide.  Now  that  we're  chatting  here  all  snug,  I 


270         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

may  tell  you,  Alfred,  that  it's  been  pretty  interesting 
and  pretty  broadening." 

"Marjie,  dear — " 

"Now,  Anna,  don't  let's  go  up  to  bed  just  yet. 
Not  just  yet.  It  is  so  cosy  down  here,  and  I'm 
much  too  excited  to  sleep.  Just  a  little  while.  I — 
I  want  to  visit  with  Alfred  a  little  about  my  life  in 
Tahulamaji."  The  atmosphere  in  the  living  room 
grew  subtly  electric.  The  minister  sat  rigid.  But 
the  speaker  went  on  in  a  cheery,  simple  way:  "Just 
think,  just  think!  When  you  would  be  sitting  down 
in  your  nice  house  in  Ohio,  there  I  was.  .  .  ."  She 
interrupted  herself  with  a  laugh.  "It  does  sound 
rather  dreadful,  now  doesn't  it?  You  in  Ohio  and 
me.  .  .  .  Fancy  my  going  way  off  there  alone — for 
you  know  the  Tahulamajians  were  once  cannibals! 
— all  by  myself,  and — and  living!  Gracious,  how 
extraordinary  it  does  sound!" 

She  rocked  with  folded  arms  and  peeped  at  her 
brother-in-law  out  of  the  wicked  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"But  it's  such  fun,"  she  went  on,  a  little  solemnly, 
"keeping  your  personal  life  all  ship-shape — all  ship- 
shape, Alfred — and  yet  really  feeling,  as  you  go 
along,  that  you're  not  missing  a  single  thing  that's 
worth  while.  No,  not  a  single  blessed  thing,  Alfred. 
When  I  went  to  Tahulamaji  I  hadn't  an  awfully  clear 
notion  of  what  I  was  going  to  do  there.  You  see  I 
thought  I'd  just  have  a  look-around,  as  we  say.  Oh, 
Alfred,"  she  chatted,  "such  a  lovely  spot!  So  warm 


THE   LIGHT  271 

and  tropical,  with  music  at  night  over  the  water.  .  .  . 
Alfred,  how  you  would  love  it  there!" 

He  shifted  uneasily,  and  she  went  on:  "What  I  did, 
though — what  my  life  in  Tahulamaji  really  turned 
out  to  be — wasn't  after  all  very  poetic,  or  even  essen- 
tially tropical,  when  it  comes  to  that.  Yes,  I've 
often  thought  I  might  have  chosen  a  more  harmo- 
nious vocation.  But  one  must  grasp  what  one  can 
and  be  content.  The  fact  is,  Alfred,  I  went  into  the 
drygoods  business." 

"Drygoods!"  cried  her  sister. 

"Yes — just  think  of  that — and  after  all  the  really 
exciting  things  I've  done  in  my  life!  But  that's 
exactly  what  I  did,  Anna.  Yes,  that's  what  my  life 
was  in  Tahulamaji.  And  you've  simply  no  idea  how 
the  thing  took!  The  natives,  you  see,  were  just  begin- 
ning to  wear  clothes — regular  clothes,  I  mean,  dear 
brother.  And  in  a  few  months  I  had  an  establish- 
ment—  an  establishment,  I  tell  you,  with  departments 
and  counters  and  clerks.  ...  It  was  perfectly 
beautiful  to  see  them  skipping  about,  and  the  little 
cash  boxes  running  on  their  tracks  overhead.  .  .  ." 

"Marjie,  really?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  Of  course  that  came  just  a  little 
later  on,  after  electricty  had  been  introduced.  The 
arrangement  was  somewhat  crude,  but  it  worked. 
Anna,  you've  no  idea  the  things  you  can  do  if  you 
really  set  your  heart  on  them!  Yes,  in  time  we  even 
had  cash  boxes  overhead,  and  there  was  I,  up  in  the 


272         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

cage  where  all  the  cash  boxes  went  to,  making  change 
and  keeping  the  books!  That's  what  makes  me  laugh 
so,  when  I  think  of  it:  you  living  in  your  nice  house 
in  Ohio,  and  me  up  in  the  little  cage  with  the  cash 
coming  in  by  trolley!" 

"Marjory,  Marjory!" 

"The  third  year  I  had  a  dressmaker  over  from 
San  Francisco,  and  the  business  trebled  at  once. 
The  poor  dears  had  been  trying  to  make  their  own 
clothes,  but  of  course  they  didn't  know  much  about 
styles.  I  had  a  circulating  library  of  pattern  books, 
but  it  was  a  great  day,  I  tell  you,  when  the  dress- 
maker arrived!  They  closed  the  schools,  and  a 
reception  was  held.  Even  the  Queen  came  down  the 
line!  I  have  a  manager  now,"  she  concluded,  "run- 
ning the  business.  I  said  I  simply  had  to  get  off  for 
a  rest.  Alfred,"  she  soared  to  her  climax,  "your 
sister  has  worked  herself  weary  and  rich.  How 
much  will  the  new  parish  house  cost?" 

The  Rev.  Needham  gasped.  This  is  really  not  an 
exaggeration.  He  gasped — and  it  was,  this  time, 
no  merely  inner  gasping,  either.  Marjory — the  new 
parish  house  .  .  .  ! 

"Why,  Marjory!"  he  cried,  his  heart  deeply 
touched.  There  sounded  again  here  that  former  note 
of  appeal  or  even  pathos. 

Nevertheless,  long  afterward,  when  the  fine  new 
parish  house  was  all  finished,  and  the  church  could 
hold  its  own  a  little  while  longer  in  a  world  which 
was  changing  so  rapidly,  a  grim  spectre  stalked 


THE   LIGHT  273 

between  the  minister  and  her  magnificent  donation. 
It  was  the  spectre  of  the  Bishop  whose  bed  she  had 
seen  made  up.  Did  Marjory  think  he  would  sleep 
on  two  mattresses,  like  the  Bishop?  And  buy  an 
upper  for  his  golf  sticks? 

Miss  Whitcom  had  risen  to  bid  them  good  night. 
The  indignant  cottage  lamp  had  begun  to  sputter  and 
fail.  It  had  never  before  been  kept  burning  so  late. 
But  she  lingered  long  enough  to  give  them  the  full 
benefit  of  one  of  her  delightful  and  so  characteristic 
shafts  of  bluntness. 

"O'Donnell,"  she  said,  "has  stood  by  all  these 
years.  Think  of  it!  Think  of  its  taking  so  long  as 
that  to  be  sure!  Of  course  it  wasn't  that  I  ever  cared 
two  straws  for  anybody  else.  O'Donnell's  never  had 
any  active  competition,  except  from  my  overwhelming 
notions  about  being  free  to  work  out  my  life. 
Well,  I've  had  my  freedom,  and  I've  worked  it  out. 
And  now — well,  he's  asked  me  again — tonight. 
But  what  do  you  think?  I  haven't  given  him  a 
definite  answer  yet — not  yet!  I'm  going  over  to  the 
Elmbrook  Inn  as  soon  as  the  sun's  up,  though.  I  guess 
I'll  stand  down  under  his  window  and  call  out  to 
him  softly.  And  when  he  comes  to  the  window, 
I'll  say:  'Barrett,  I've  had  my  fling!'  Alfred  — 
you  don't  think  I  could  find  my  way  through  to- 
night .  .  .  ?" 

"Marjory!  Of  course  not!  Tomorrow,  if  you 
must.  .  .  ." 


274         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

But  she  chattered  gaily  and  unquenchably  on.  "I 
don't  know  how  it's  all  going  to  turn  out,  I'm  sure 
— about  our  future,  I  mean.  You  see,  if  he'll  come 
along  to  Tahulamaji,  I'll  sell  him  a  half  interest  in 
the  business,  and  we  could  let  the  manager  go.  But 
I  doubt  if  he'll  do  it.  It's  so  far,  and  then,  you  see, 
he's  been  with  the  Babbits  so  long.  I  can  fancy  one's 
growing  very  much  attached  to  the  Babbits!" 

"And  if  he  doesn't  want  to  go  to  Tahulamaji?" 
asked  her  sister. 

"If  he  doesn't?  If  he  doesn't?  Well,  then  I'll 
have  to  follow  his  lead." 

The  Rev.  Needham  had  a  sudden  flash  of  wholly 
disorganizing  inspiration.  "Marjory,  you  don't 
mean  Babbit  &  Babbit?" 

But  it  was  just  exactly  what  she  did  mean!  "Yes, 
in  that  case  I'll  travel  for  Babbit  &  Babbit.  Must  be 
doing  something,  I  can  tell  you,  with  all  these  parish 
houses  to  be  built!  And  it  won't  be  my  first  job  on 
the  road,  by  any  manner  of  means,  either!" 

Then  she  kissed  her  sister  affectionately  on  the 
mouth  and  her  brother-in-law  affectionately  on  the 
cheek.  And  then  the  cottage  lamp  went  out. 


8 

WHEN  Hilda  went  up  to  bed  she  thought 
Louise  already  asleep,  for  she  lay  there 
with  her  eyes  closed.  Hilda  undressed 
as  stealthily  as  possible,  and  crept  in  beside  her  sis- 
ter. At  first  she  felt  so  excited  that  it  seemed  to  her 
she  must  surely  lie  awake  all  night.  But  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  her  eyes  drooped  at  once,  and  in  five  minutes 
she  was  asleep. 

Them  it  was  that  Louise  stirred  and  opened  her 
eyes.  They  were  very  wide  and  very  full  of  perplex- 
ity. She  had  not  been  sleeping,  but  had  feigned 
sleep  because  she  dreaded  the  ordeal  of  talking.  She 
wanted  to  be  alone,  and  sh,e  wanted  to  think — all 
night.  A  feverish  zeal  was  upon  her. 

Barry  was  abed  too.  His  light  had  gone  out  and 
his  room  was  quite  silent.  Was  he  asleep?  She 
wondered.  Or  was  he,  too,  lying  there  in  the  dark 
with  eyes  wide  open,  thinking? 

The  walk  back  from  the  roast  had  been  a  very 
silent  one.  The  day  had  been  crowded  with  emo- 
tion, and  during  the  journey  back  to  Beachcrest  the 
tenseness  had  seemed,  curiously,  to  be  eased  a  little. 
At  least  there  seemed  a  tacit  understanding  that, 
whatever  the  further  developments  might  be,  to- 
morrow must  do.  Tomorrow,  tomorrow!  Tonight 

275 


276         THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

all  was  hazed  and  half  drowned  in  unshed,  groping 
tears.  Even  emotion  itself,  through  sheer,  blessed 
weariness,  was  subtly  obscured.  So  the  walk  had 
been  silent,  while  somehow  both  had  felt  as  though 
the  air  had  cleared  a  little.  It  was  easier  to  breathe. 

They  had  stood  together  a  moment  on  the  porch. 

"Goodnight,"  she  said  huskily. 

"Goodnight,  Louise,"  he  returned  gravely,  giving 
her  hand  just  a  frank,  brief  pressure. 

She  wanted  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet.  The  im- 
pulse to  do  something  splendid  and  expiating  swept 
over  her  almost  irresistibly.  She  wanted  to  implore 
his  forgiveness — would  that  set  their  lives  in  order? 
If  this  were  to  be  the  end,  she  felt  there  ought  to  be 
something  at  least  vaguely  stupendous  about  it. 

"Louise,  dear — what  is  it?"  he  asked,  quite  ten- 
derly and  calmly,  yet  with  an  intensity,  too,  which 
seemed  like  a  hot,  reproachful  breath  against  one's 
very  soul. 

She  swayed  a  little,  almost  as  though  she  might  be 
about  to  fall  in  a  faint.  He  touched  her  arm  gently. 

The  opportunity  passed.  "It's  nothing,"  she  mur- 
mured. "I'm  tired,  that's  all — so  tired!"  And  she 
did  not  throw  herself  at  his  feet,  or  do  anything 
splendid  at  all. 

It  was  true,  she  was  very  tired.  She  expected  to 
drop  at  once  into  a  merciful  drugged  sleep.  It  had 
been  like  that  after  the  affair  with  Richard.  But  now, 
lo!  she  found  herself  more  wide  awake,  it  seemed, 
than  she  had  ever  been,  The  weariness  seemed  all 


THE   LIGHT  277 

slipping  from  her,  and  her  mind  grew  quite  vibrant, 
as  with  a  slowly  dawning  purpose. 

Ah,  tomorrow! 

Would  the  situation  be  as  tragic  then?  Could  it 
be  otherwise  than  tragic?  But  perhaps — perhaps 
they  would  see  things  more  clearly.  .  .  . 

"Yes,"  she  thought,  "I'll  go  to  sleep  now  and  let 
tomorrow  bring  what  it  must." 

Mariana,  mananal 

But  this  was  not  to  be.  She  closed  her  eyes.  She 
tried  to  turn  into  a  snug  and  sleepy  position.  But 
she  could  not  woo  sleep;  and  every  effort  merely 
sharpened  her  senses.  Again  she  found  herself  lying 
in  the  dark  with  wide  eyes,  and  went  on  thinking, 
thinking. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  strange  commotion? 
Phantoms — of  the  past — presaging  phantoms  end- 
lessly to  follow.  ...  At  dawn  she  had  gone  out 
blithely  enough  to  welcome  her  lover.  He  had 
come.  And  then.  .  .  .  But  even  before  his  coming, 
that  curious  battle  had  set  in.  Not  his  hat  or  the 
twist  of  his  profile.  .  .  .  Phantoms.  Phantoms 
rising  up  in  her  heart  like  some  sinister  cloud  of  ret- 
ribution. And  their  single  adversary:  "You  are 
mine,  all  mine.  .  .  ." 

Now,  in  this  sombre  hour  shunned  by  sleep,  the 
conflict  achieved  an  effect  of  climax:  she  felt  it  to  be 
that,  obscurely  yet  with  a  desperate  poignancy — felt 
that  an  issue  precious  in  the  scheme  of  her  unfolding 
destiny  faced  decision.  Legions  of  spent  loves  went 


278         THE   MOTH  DECIDES 

by  in  marshalled  battle  trim.  With  an  inward  cry 
she  watched  them  as  they  passed.  Perfume  still  lin-. 
gering  in  the  house,  though  with  the  guest  departed. 
Ghosts  of  a  many-vizaged  passion,  homing  at  length, 
for  the  fulfilment  of  a  barter  Faust-like  in  its  essence. 

How  lavish  she  had  always  been:  how  free! 
Shambles,  now  the  glamour  was  gone  stale.  A  mon- 
strous cheapening — a  heart  flung  out  to-let  in  a  public 
street.  Yes,  how  easily  and  extravagantly  she  had 
spent  herself — a  profligate  spending,  for  what  the 
moment  could  return.  Here,  at  last,  was  a  love  that 
demanded:  "You  must  be  mine,  all  mine — you  must 
belong  to  me  forever!"  Curious,  that  of  them  all — 
of  all  the  voices  that  had  spoken  of  love  before — it 
should  be  Lynndal's  which,  in  fancy,  thus  first 
framed  a  so  momentous  contract! 

He  had  been  always  so  modest;  in  the  beginning, 
to  be  loved  in  return  had  figured  for  him  as  a  too,  too 
generous  conjecture.  Gradually,  however,  there  had 
been  a  return.  Their  lives  had  drawn  together. 
The  fact  that  this  love  had,  from  almost  the  very  be- 
ginning, been  challenged  to  the  bridging  of  such  dis- 
tance began  to  assume  for  Louise  a  new  and  arresting 
significance.  There  had  been  something  in  it,  in  its 
very  fibre,  rising  above  any  mere  convenience  of  con- 
tact: a  phenomenon  unique,  it  struck  her,  in  the  long 
and  turbulent  history  of  her  heart  interests.  Those 
letters.  .  .  .  "That  was  just  it,"  she  had  groped 
when  confronted  by  Aunt  Marjie.  Romancing  ap- 
peared to  have  carried  her  far,  how  far!  Mirage. 


THE   LIGHT  279 

And  yet,  behind  the  mirage  a  something  deeper 
lurked.  She  sensed  this  now;  but  all  the  weary  day 
she  had  sensed  it  also,  dimly.  Lynndal.  Hitherto, 
the  man  himself  had  barely  figured.  Yet  ever  he  had 
been  there,  too.  He  had  come  from  far  in  the  west  to 
put  a  ring  on  her  finger,  and  had  found  her  in  a 
panic  of  goblin  doubt.  That  fancied  voice  in  the 
shriek  of  steam:  "Mine — mine!"  Then  the  kiss 
which  exposed  her  dilemma.  But  behind  these 
things — the  man;  the  man  himself.  And  what  was 
this  that  seemed  for  so  long,  in  a  fine  and  utter 
silence,  to  have  been  building?  Sanctuary!  .  .  . 

Her  mind,  as  she  lay  here  in  the  dark,  became  in- 
deed a  battleground  for  this  ultimate  climax  of 
struggle.  An  unimagined  realm  they  made  of  it. 
Her  heart  beat  faster  and  her  cheeks  grew  hot.  To- 
let,  in  a  public  street.  "Richard!  I  have  done  what 
he  would  have  done — what  he  did!  I  am  no  better 
— no  better!"  She  writhed,  and  the  bitterness  did 
not  leave  her — carried  her  instead  to  a  yet  more 
awful  conclusion:  "I  am  no  better  than  a — than 
a — "  The  terrible  word  scorched  across  her  heart, 
leaving  a  scar  behind.  Sobs  shook  her  body,  and  the 
tears  were  bitter  tears  of  hopelessness  and  regret. 

But  then,  slowly,  the  bitterness  eased  a  little;  and, 
full  of  amazement,  she  felt  a  shy  presence  of  fresh- 
ness stealing  mysteriously  in,  as  from  some  empire 
where  struggle  is  no  citizen.  A  strange  and  beautiful 
sense  of  disentanglement.  In  the  previous  moment 
of  unwithheld  relentless  purgatory,  she  had  caught 


280          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

the  rhythm  of  that  something — that  something  behind 
the  mirage!  So  that,  in  time,  as  she  lay  relaxed,  with 
tears  undried  on  her  face,  it  came  to  her  that  just  one 
fact  remained,  of  all  the  febrile  facts  which,  out  of 
a  long  inglorious  past,  had  attained  the  immortality 
of  ghost-hood.  Just  one — one  "living"  fact: 
Lynndal! 

Until  today  he  had  but  filled  a  niche — but  carried 
on  the  pattern  of  the  many;  now,  however,  the  power 
to  stem  this  ruinous  tide  revealed  itself  as  at  hand, 
just  waiting  to  be  seized — the  courage  to  give  her- 
self completely,  and  to  achieve  a  love  as  steadfast 
and  unchanging  as  his  had  proved  to  be. 

The  night  wore  on.  The  moon  grew  sleepy  and 
drooped  in  the  starry  western  sky.  But  Louise  did 
not  sleep.  There  was  high  drama  in  her  heart,  and 
she  could  not  sleep  till  it  was  all  played  out. 

She  began  laying  plans.  What  would  her  life  be 
like  if  she  married  Lynndal?  Dry-farming.  But 
later  he  would  run  for  Congress — perhaps  he  would 
be  Governor  some  day.  And  in  the  meantime,  love 
— and  there  would  perhaps  be  children.  .  .  .  Secur- 
ity! Peace!  An  anchorage — something  to  steady 
her  and  set  her  wayward  heart  at  rest! 

"I'm  the  kind  of  girl,"  she  told  herself,  with  a 
grimness  which  still  went  hand  in  hand  with  the  orgy 
of  honesty  and  fearless  insight  that  had  been  making 
these  dark  hours  so  memorable,  " — the  kind  that 
must  be  married.  I — I'm  not  safe  otherwise — not 
to  be  trusted." 


THE   LIGHT  281 

And  then  her  mood  lightened  again  a  little  and 
grew  grimly  whimsical:  "They  say  a  minister's 
children  are  always  the  worst!" 

She  must  have  fallen  into  a  little  sleep;  for  she 
opened  her  eyes  with  a  start  and  gazed  up  at  a  slight 
abrasion  in  the  shingle  roof  through  which  morn- 
ing blinked.  For  a  moment  she  wondered  why  she 
had  waked  so  early.  The  July  birds  were  all  aflut- 
ter outside.  It  was  a  radiant  summer  dawn. 

Hilda  lay  beside  her,  sound  asleep.  The  house 
was  very  still.  It  was  tomorrow! 

Downstairs  on  the  mantelpiece  in  the  cottage  liv- 
ing room  the  Dutch  clock  was  ticking  in  its  wiry,  in- 
dignant way.  There  came  a  whirr — so  like  a  wheeze 
of  decreptitude.  And  then  it  struck:  one,  two,  three, 
four.  .  ,  t 

Very  quietly  Louise  slipped  out  of  bed.  She  did 
not  want  to  waken  Hilda,  but  she  had  a  sudden  desire 
to  be  out  under  the  sky. 

Quickly  putting  on  her  clothes,  she  stole  from  the 
cottage.  The  morning  was  very  still  and  fresh. 
She  felt  as  though  she  must  shout  the  gladness  that 
was  in  her.  Tomorrow!  Who  could  possibly  have 
foreseen  that  it  would  be  like  this? 

Louise  climbed  up  out  of  the  valley  toward  the 
little  rustic  "tea-house"  where  Leslie  had  waited  for 
her  yesterday  at  dawn.  She  thought  she  would  sit 
there  a  long,  long  time,  trying  to  realize  her  great 
new  contrite  happiness.  She  reached  the  door.  A 


282          THE   MOTH   DECIDES 

figure  stirred.  Lynndal  was  there.  He  had  risen 
even  before  she  was  awake,  for  slumber  had  not 
come  to  him  at  all.  When  he  saw  her  face,  he  could 
not  believe  the  new  happiness  that  seemed  rushing 
upon  him  out  of  the  dark  chaos  of  their  yesterday. 
She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  him.  She  snuggled 
up  against  him  with  a  brief,  glad  sigh.  "I  want  to 
be  yours,  all  yours,  Lynndal,"  she  said  softly  and 
just  a  little  humorously.  "I  want  to  be  yours  for- 
ever and  ever.  I  don't  want  to  belong  to  any  one 
but  you!" 


3  ...    —  ••-   •        IB     <•  M  nun  mi  mi  ||f 

1158  01164  4506 


000136757    2 


